


Parts of Her

by Hallianna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Desire, F/M, Inspired by Fanfiction, slow slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallianna/pseuds/Hallianna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke has terrible friends.</p><p>They all love her, in their own way.  Something about her draws them near, keeps them close.  Each of them has a favorite part of her.</p><p>But only one person has loved her from the start, from the whole, and Varric isn't about to admit that he's in love with his best friend.  That would never do.  So  when a grave error might cost him that relationship with Hawke, they both flee - one seeking understanding and perspective, the other needing to fulfill what was left empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anders - Her Voice Unravels Him

**Author's Note:**

> Deeply inspired by codenamecynic's The Heart of the Matter: http://archiveofourown.org/works/737267/chapters/1371563
> 
> Do yourself a favor and go read it if you haven't.

“Thank you.  Maker bless you, Anders.”

Anders tried to subtly pull his hand from the bigger man’s sweaty grasp.  “Yes, well, it was my pleasure.  A healer’s job is to do what he can for those in need.”  He smiled at the man’s wife, who was holding their daughter so tightly Anders was afraid the poor thing would squeak.  “I’m just glad you got her here in time.”

He walked them slowly to the clinic’s sorry excuse for a door and began to say goodnight when the man tried to press a few coins into his hand.  Anders waved him off.  “I don’t accept payment for my services.”

The man nodded solemnly.  “But….I have to give you something.  I’m a blacksmith, maybe we can work out a deal at my shop then?”  The big man put a gentle hand on his child’s head and wrapped his free arm around his wife.  “It’s just, we’re ever so thankful, for you and your friend Hawke.”

“Well, I’m very grateful for the offer but - wait, what?”  Anders whipped his head up from where it had been drifting to the right to stare at the stray cat that had wandered into view.  He narrowed his eyes and said in a sharp tone, “What’s this about Hawke?”

The man just nodded, nonplussed at the sudden change in the healer’s demeanor.  “She’s the one who got us to you.”

His wife nodded as well, her voice chiming in.  “We were in such a state, trying to find someone to help poor Maria, and Serah Hawke found us wandering around Lowtown.  She saw we needed help and got us here.  When we turned around to thank her, she was gone.”  She snapped her fingers.  “Just like that.  I’d have thought she was a mage, but she wasn’t carrying no staff.”

Anders dug a finger in the front of his robes and pulled on the neck, suddenly too hot in his layers of clothing.  He wasn’t surprised by their story but at the same time, he knew Hawke had been avoiding him after their last argument.  Suffice to say, he and Ismae Hawke didn’t exactly see eye to eye on the “mage situation” in Kirkwall.

But that didn’t mean he paid her any mind unless she was in his face.  Far from it.  Hawke had a particular way of getting under your skin, even when she was standing silently beside you.  

For him, Hawke posed a very real threat because while they might fight, they might want to tear each other apart from time to time, she also flirted shamelessly with him whenever she could.  

And Hawke had a voice made for flirting, low and soft, like the twang of a string instrument played on some smoky night in a dank tavern in the middle of nowhere.  Slow, seductive, and utterly his undoing. Every damn time.

And that would drive him mad sooner than their arguments would.  Crazy as it was, he found himself looking forward to seeing her, even if it meant not knowing whether he’d get a wink and a subtly crude comment said in that ridiculous voice of hers, or a snide remark about renegade mages belonging in the Circle.  Either way, he’d get to hear her talk, be near her.

Shaking free from his thoughts, Anders shuffled the couple and child off, again refusing any kind of payment but promising to let Hawke know that she had a discount waiting at the blacksmith’s stall whenever she wanted it.  He returned to the clinic, doused the lantern outside the door to let patients know he wasn’t available, and threw the bolt.

He let his head thunk against the heavy wood, enjoying the momentary sting of pain.  He still felt too hot and his hands twitched, like he couldn’t find enough work for them.  But he wasn’t in the mood for more patients and sleep wouldn’t come any easier tonight than it normally did.  

He spent a few good minutes pacing, another few puttering around as he cleaned up the supplies still lingering from a long day’s work, and then he finally looked around the empty room and sighed.  Hawke was on his mind, and he was practically vibrating with need.

Well, that settled it.

Anders abandoned the clinic for his private room in the back, bolted that door, and instantly tossed his robe off so he could lay back on his bed in just smallclothes.  He wasted no time in slipping a hand under them and grasping his half-hard erection, moaning softly at the contact.

A few sure, deft strokes had him fully erect and gasping, heels digging into the blanket at the end of the bed.  He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to stifle a groan as his thumb slid over the head.  He closed his eyes, willing any other face or image to appear in black but hers.

He wasn't so lucky.  

A grunt filled with frustration escaped him but he continued to move his hand, the other sliding up his chest to seek out a nipple and tug it between thumb and forefinger.  The sensation made him arch his back slightly, but his hips didn’t rise from the bed until he sent a spark through his fingers.

“Fuck,” he whispered as he did it again, eyes screwed shut, body overheating, mind running in circles with Hawke at its center.  He could almost hear her in his ear, whispering dirty, filthy things to him as she watched him get off, watched him use his own magic in this way.  Oh, the things she would say to him, her voice soft and low and husky, dripping with the promise of pleasure.

“Anders?”

Anders froze mid-stroke, eyes snapping open as he panted for breath.  

It couldn’t be.

After a moment of silence, he figured his imagination was playing games.  His hand slid down, then back up again, and he moaned quietly in the cool, still air of his little room.

“Anders, are you here?  Sorry for barging in, but I needed to see if we could talk.”  Silence, and then a sigh.  “Maker, this is so stupid.  You’re probably in the back avoiding me right now.”

Anders couldn’t move, couldn’t think enough to figure how how she even got in.  He heard her footsteps grow louder and he found himself stuck.  If she came back here, she’d get quite the eye-full.  But if she stopped at the door and he didn’t make any noise, she might turn around and leave.  

So he held his breath and waited.  He couldn’t let her see him like this, and he honestly wasn’t sure who would be more mortified.

Anders counted slowly, reaching eight before he heard her say, “All right, if you’re in the back and hiding from me, I get it.  I wasn’t...Maker’s balls, I wasn’t very kind to you when we last spoke and I just wanted to apologize.

He heard a sigh, then her voice sounded oddly closer, like she was talking an inch away from the door.  “So please know that I screwed up and I’m sorry.  We won’t always agree but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect you, Anders.  I think about everything you do for the people down here, the ones who are tossed aside, ignored, spat on and cursed at if they dare to even go into Lowtown during the day.  You take them all in, you help them, and you charge them nothing for it. It’s beyond noble.”  A soft thump, her hand or maybe her head against the battered wood, and she whispered, “I hope you can forgive me.”

Anders waited until the scuff of her boots against the stone floor faded before digging the heel of his palm into his forehead and letting out a groan.

_Maker’s balls is right_ , he thought before tossing his robes and boots back on and following her dusty trail back up to Hightown.


	2. Fenris - Her Lips Make Him Mad

_Fasta vass._

_Why is she doing this?_

_Is she trying to torment me?_

“Uh, hey there Broody.  Got something on your mind?”

Fenris’s head snapped up and over to shoot Varric a withering glare.  Well, it would have worked on anyone else but the dwarf just laughed and scooped up his winnings from another hand of Wicked Grace.  “I’m fine,” he spat, pushing his cards to the middle of the table and looking anywhere but in Hawke’s direction.

He tried to stop staring at her.  He truly did.  All night, she’d sat across the table from him, talking and laughing and drinking and drawing his attention in a thousand different ways.  But his eyes always lingered on her lips.

Hawke had a beautiful mouth.  Pale and pink like the insides of the oysters Danarius used to have him crack menacingly against the table to frighten his simpering guests. It seemed unfair to Fenris for him to compare any part of Hawke to his life as a slave, but it was the best metaphor he could come up with while drunk and watching her wrap those lips around the head of a bottle.

A card spun across the table, nicking the side of his hand.  Fenris tore his eyes from Hawke to aim a watered down version of his earlier glare at Isabela.  The pirate snickered and nudged Varric sloppily.  “I think you’re right, Varric.”

Varric laughed.  “Oh, I’m right at least twice a day, especially if it involves Hawke.”

Isabela gave him a sidelong glance and Fenris swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. “I don’t know what you could be possibly talking about.”

The dwarf laughed again and Fenris shoved back from the table, drawing a chirp from Merrill, who had been busy stacking a spare card deck into a delicate pattern.  Fenris ignored the mage and walked quickly away from the table and his companions' startled looks.  

He got as far as the door.  Hawke skirted an upturned stool and a puddle of questionable origin to beat him there, barely getting a hand on the scarred wood.  "Fenris, what's wrong?"

He glanced at her, then instantly ripped his eyes away.  Away from the temptation of her mouth.  "Nothing," he growled, "Now please move."

Her eyes were pleading, but her face was hard, a fresh scratch across the bridge of her nose drawing his attention.   _That shouldn't have happened_ , he thought, his mouth twisting into a grimace.  "Not until you tell me what's going on."  She huffed.  "You've been acting put out all day."

_Yes, ever since earlier today when you separated us into teams and took me with you instead of Aveline.  You forced me to sit in that cave, feet from you, and listen to you chatter on while we waited for bandits.  You made me sit there and I had to act like nothing was wrong.  Had to grip the handle of my axe so I didn't do something stupid._  He glared harder at her, trying to break her resolve.  Something incredibly stupid, like kiss you.

And his gaze returned to her lips.  They weren't pursed in confusion now.  They remained soft, even as her voice grew hard.  And he found them irresistible.

"Fenris, I don't have patience for one of your moods right now," Hawke snapped.  

"I'm fine," he snapped back, dodging her outstretched hand and trying not to run into the safety of the shadows.  He settled for a brisk pace, clenched fists swinging in rhythm with his silent footsteps.

"Fine, just run away then!" Hawke yelled at his back.  "Run away like you always do, it's what you're best at!"

The barb struck true, hitting the middle of his spine and reverberating up until his vision went white.   _She's not wrong_ , an evil little voice laughed, and he snarled at the darkness.

He marched back out of the night, stalking her, making her back up, up, until her back hit the crumbling wall of The Hanged Man.  Hawke kept her glare, but her mouth softened, parted.  And his fists unclenched, but his pursuit didn't stop until they were inches apart.

"What did you say?" he growled, voice soft and edged with razors.

"You heard me," she replied, voice soft enough to match his, eyes just as hard and unblinking. "Just turn back around, Fenris.  Go back to that filthy, rundown pile you call a home and stay there.   _Hiding_."  Hawke bit out the last word, slapping him across the face with it.  "If I need you, I'll find you."

She shoved him away, her palms not stopped by the cold iron of his armor or the fear of what he might do.  The fear of his unstable moods, the unpredictability of his anger.  Fenris watched as she marched back into The Hanged Man, door slamming shut behind with.  He stared at that door for several long moments, trying to figure out what had just happened.

Revelation came in reflection, much later into the night and after he'd drained a particularly bitter bottle of Antivan red.

She didn't fear him, not like the others did.  She didn't pity him.  She trusted him, but if he'd learned anything about Hawke over two years, it was that she was terribly trusting.

It was an honor he didn't deserve.

She'd tried so hard to hide from him, with words that sounded like anger and eyes that blazed.  But her mouth gave her away.  Anyone else would have shouted at him with a snarl, maybe spittle flecking their lips as they screamed.

Her words sounded like anger, but her mouth had stayed soft.  Lovely.

Hawke's lips, and the woman they belonged to, haunted his dreams.  And when he awoke, cold and stiff, he looked over the bottles strewn about and the cobwebs in the corners and heard her words again.

He owed her an apology.  After he cleaned up the place.  Fenris gazed around, taking stock of the filth surrounding him.  Yes, perhaps that was the way....maybe he'd invite her over for a drink, let her see freshly washed walls and swept floors, hand her a glass of the best wine in the cellar....

Fenris scoffed, the sound echoing in the room.  Who was he fooling?  Himself?  Most certainly.  He was a runaway slave and an elf, his curse tattooed on his body, beautiful and dangerous and terrifying to all.

She trusted him, those pretty eyes and soft lips of hers calling to him.  She was as much of a fool as he was, their paths inevitably crossed through folly and misdeed.  But she had family, a future.  He was nothing compared to that.

Hawke and her mouth would be the end of him.

 


	3. Isabela - Her Hips Move Her

_Silks._

_Definitely silks._

Isabela took a deep breath and tried to avert her eyes from the rhythmic sway of the hips that were leading them up the steepest hill she'd ever lain boots on.  She instead looked at the trees, the rocky ground beneath her feet, the scrubby underbrush that dotted the landscape of the Wounded Coast.

But all she saw was red.

Hawke always seemed like she was swathed in red.  It typically streaked her face and splattered her armor.  Red settled into a rust-like stain on her dual daggers and on the tips of arrows she pulled from bandits and slavers.  Isabela loved the the way Hawke pulled arrows from bodies-one fast, steady yank, but as she did it, that adorable nose of hers would wrinkle in disgust.

Isabela would kill an army of genlocks to get that nose wrinkle - and the hips, body, face, all of Hawke - into her bed.

And she'd drape them both in red.  Silk, chemise, whatever she could find.

"Blast," she muttered under her breath as she navigated around a boulder.

"Problem, Rivani?"

She grinned down at the dwarf.  "Now why would you say that?"

Varric hitched Bianca higher on his back and followed the pirate's boot prints around the boulder.  "Well, let's see.  Your normally sunny-"

"Sunny?"  Isabela laughed.  "Never been called that before."

"No?"

She shook her head.  "I've been called many things, Varric, but sunny is not one of them."

He chuckled.  "All right, your normal disposition, whatever you want to call it, is a little faded today."

"I've just got so much to think about, that's all."

"What?  What drink do I get and whose bed do I fall into?"

Isabela batted her eyelashes at the guard captain who was holding up the rear.   _She could hold up my rear_.  "Amongst other things," she drawled, flashing a smile over her shoulder.

And then she refocused her attention back on those hips.

Definitely silks.  But now she was thinking crimson.  
  


* * *

 

"Oh, balls."

Varric slid her an empty cup and uncorked the last bottle of Amarrac whiskey.  "And here I thought you were looking a little higher."

Isabela burst out laughing, barely able to hold the cup steady as Varric poured.  "Who's to say I wasn't?"

They shared an eyebrow raise and laughed again.  Out of everyone in Hawke's company, Varric was the warmest, funniest, but suffered from the same malady as she did - a heavy dose of realism.  Oh, she loved Merrill and her chirpy, but not naive, personality and Anders's dark humor and knack for cards.  Fenris and his brooding, coupled with those green eyes.  And Aveline with her sense of honor and gorgeous hair.

But Varric felt like a confidant.  A friend.

And on a night when she'd had more whiskey than food and was feeling the slightest bit alone, she sat across a table from a dwarf merchant prince and spilled a few secrets.

"It's Hawke," she confessed, eyes locking onto his.  "I can't stop thinking about her."  She shot him a smile that screamed of afterglow.  "And her hips.  Maker help me."

She drained her cup and Varric poured more for them both.  “Hard to resist a woman who wears leather like that.”

Isabela started to laugh but stopped, eyeing him closely.  “Got something on your mind, Varric?  Someone?”

He scoffed, batting the air with a gloved hand.  “Hardly.  Just making an observation.”

“A rather astute one.”

He smirked.  “I’m a writer, it’s what we do.”

“Uh huh.”  Isabela tipped her cup back and swallowed, the slight fire of the whiskey biting into her throat and making her grimace.  “Ah, hits the spot.”

Varric shook the bottle at her.  “The last bit, you want it?”

She waved him off.  “It’s all yours, sweetness.”

Varric winked, tipped the bottle back, and drained it, smacking his lips as he lowered it.  “Damn, that’s good.”  His eyes narrowed and the smile dropped from his face.  “So are we going to talk about Hawke?”

She shrugged.  “What else would we have to talk about?”  They stared at each other for a long moment, and finally she sighed.  “What do you want me to say?”

“You had a good beginning a few minutes ago, Rivani.  Keep going.  Tell the story.”

Isabela stared at him, then the room, tapping a finger on the table.  “You know much about dreams, Varric?”

“Depends on the dream.”

“The - “ and she grinned, a fleeting thing that flashed like an imp’s smile, “erotic kind.”

“The best kind.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

He held the empty bottle out and it was snagged by a barmaid.  “We already did.”

“Ha.  So Hawke.”

“Yeah, and…”

She sighed again.  “It’s those damn hips of hers.”

“You said that already.”  He tapped her hand with a finger.  “Keep going, you haven’t even gotten past the prelude.”

 


	4. Sebastian - Her Eyes Enrapture Him

He was no poet.

Sebastian knew the bawdy songs and lusty tales sung by the drunk and nearly-drunk. And he knew lines of scripture, passages and parables to help those who sought comfort and peace. The two never met, never needed to; one was part of his life before, the other his life now.

But her eyes made him think wonderful and wicked things, worthy of the a tavern's thick melodies and the soaring praise of the Chantry. He knew in his heart he shouldn't think such things. It was more than blasphemous and he almost expected Andraste herself to swoop down and scold him. But thinking that was blasphemous, too.

He was a man who could not win, and would forever be begging for forgiveness.

Some small part of him believed he'd find salvation in her green eyes.

He sighed, opened his eyes, unclasped his hands. Prayer was futile at this point. He rose and dusted the hem of his robes with a hand far more casual than he'd like. The sun streamed through the little room, setting dust motes alight so they sparkled.

Sebastian glanced around the room and spotted his bow and quiver. Hawke had sent word earlier, asking for assistance tracking down a group of bandits the Guard Captain had been after for some time.

 _In the face of an adversary, we must confront that which troubles or vexes us. We must stand in front of it, stare it in the face, and command it to kneel before us_.

Wise words from someone long gone, a brother who had been murdered by enemies of his family. Enemies he'd once called friends. _Maker preserve me_ , he thought as changed from robes to leathers, bow and quiver strapped on his back. He strode out of his room and through the Chantry. He ignored the calls of a sister on the upper balcony, not caring at the moment what she wanted. He was agitated, restless. He needed to see her.

 _Let me be weak, just this once_.

* * *

 

"Well. If it isn't Choir Boy."

Sebastian stifled a sigh and instead raised a hand in greeting. "Hello, Varric." He nodded to Anders and Aveline. Hawke was nowhere in sight.

Sebastian unsheathed his bow and tested the pull of the bowstring. Anything to distract him from the distinct lack of Hawke. There was a long silent moment, stretched thin between people who were mostly acquaintances, the only thing pulling them to a center being Hawke.

Five minutes later, Fenris started pacing.

After eight minutes, Aveline began polishing the hilt of her sword, eyes never straying far from the dark alley at their backs.

It took Varric fifteen minutes before he swung Bianca around to test its trigger.

And Sebastian waited, still as stone, eyes tracking every leaf flutter and rat whisker twitch. He could feel her absence in his gut, a swift punch of anxiety that worsened the longer they stood there and Hawke remained absent. If he saw her, maybe he could put this....obsession that had been hounding him for months to bed forever.

He had the strength. Now he just needed the will.

He wasn’t surprised when Hawke dashed his plans to pieces. Hair flying loose, one gauntlet gone, she came running full speed up the cracked stone walkway to the west. Torches and...was that laughter?….followed her.

They sprang into motion, Fenris leaping out in front, axe gleaming, teeth bared. Aveline’s shield went up, and Bianca came to life in Varric’s hands. Sebastian quickly jumped to the middle of a nearby staircase, the bird’s eye view allowing him to call out what was coming toward them before the others would see it. “Hawke, and what looks like four bandits on her heels,” he yelled down just as Hawke collapsed into a roll, brushing past Fenris, and springing to her feet, daggers in hand. Sebastian couldn’t tell for certain in the dim light, but it looked like Hawke was favoring her right arm.

Anger coursed through him, hot and wild. He notched an arrow and sighted down his bow, aiming for the weak spot between the first bandit's cuirass and shoulder plate. The arrow flew true and he notched another one, readied his aim...

"Just don't hit _me_ with that thing!" a familiar voice called out. He saw the wink of her jewelry, then the flash of her daggers in torchlight, before he saw Isabela. She was running too, and her arms were laden with something sparkling.

 _Jewel heist?_ Sebastian thought dizzily. His attention diverted, he quickly glanced back to see Fenris cleave the head of the second bandit from his shoulders, and Aveline send the third man face first into a wall with a mighty heave of her shield. Varric had pulled Hawke to the side, away from the fray, and Sebastian started down the steps toward her, worry heavy in his gut.

He heard the hit before he felt it, the whistle of blade through the air. Then pain, hot and jagged and nauseating, lanced through his right shoulder. Something rough pulled him back by the neck and his hands instantly went to his throat. Rope, he thought as black dots swam in his vision.

"Sebastian!"

* * *

 

The first thing he saw when he awoke was Hawke staring down at him with those green eyes.

He tried to sputter but she laid a finger against his lips and shook her head. His throat was so dry. He tried to sit up but the warning in her eyes - and the immediate pain that ran like a shock wave through him - made him lay back down. "You've been out for two days," she said, leaning over him to fluff the pillow behind his head.

It wasn't his pillow, and that chest on the other wall wasn't his. He looked up and saw a dark red canopy. _Oh, Maker._ He was in Hawke's home. Surely a guest room.... The slip of green silk peeking out from a dresser drawer in the other corner made him sigh inwardly.

Hawke's room. Hawke's bed.

"You scared me, Sebastian. I brought you back to my place. I figured you'd be more comfortable, and safer, here." She gestured at the room, a sheepish smile on her face. "Sorry the room is such a mess. I'm still getting the place cleaned up and we don't have any guest rooms yet. I hope you don't mind."

He tried again to talk but she shook her head and pressed a cup to his lips. "I wouldn't right now. Anders will be back soon and he'll have something for your throat."

His head swam, like when he'd picked the lock on his parent's wine cellar as a child and drank three bottles. His stomach felt about the same.

He took the only comfort he had in her presence. So he watched her fuss with his blankets, run her hands over the bandages on his shoulder. He could have closed his eyes and let her do what she pleased, but if he did that, he would have missed the worry that settled between her brows. Her downturned mouth. Her eyes darkening as she studied his wounds, then his face.

He listened closely while she talked, her voice low. "What were you thinking, jumping on that staircase like that? You should have stayed out of the way. We had it." She frowned, then shook her head. "That came out wrong. I just mean..." She stopped, spotted the way he was studying her. "This would be so much easier if you could talk. Andraste's ass." She flinched. "Sorry."

He wanted to laugh, take her hand, reassure her he wasn't offended, even though he already told her that every time she flinched, then apologized after cursing.

And that was what he loved about Hawke, beyond her selflessness and her steady will and her eyes. She knew all of her friends so well that she went out of her way to accommodate them. She kept her friends so close, they started to become a part of her, and she them. Sebastian knew her influence well.

Hawke was the steady hand on his bowstring. The serene voice in his mind, clearing away the fog. And he shouldn't think of her that way. But here, now, he regretted nothing.

He watched her fingers dance over the edge of his blankets, then drew his gaze up to meet hers. The concern in her eyes warmed him, but he desperately wished he could take away the frown painted on her face.

He imagined a thousand things to say - pithy quips to make her laugh, careful reassurances that would make her smile just a little, steadfast, confident words worthy of....someone else's tongue.

He wasn't that man.

He wasn't funny or self-assured or a wordsmith. He was a man of the Maker, and he knew his place, his role.

But to his dying day, part of him would believe that old Sebastian, the vainglorious rogue who knew how to whittle a man down with arrows or words, the man who knew how to seduce, to caress and just the right ways to make a woman moan, was the only man who could please Hawke.

But he was not that man. "I have to get going," she finally said, pulling him from his thoughts. "Anders will be here and you need your rest." She patted the blankets one last time and stood, hands instantly going to her tunic pockets. "Try to sleep. I'll check on your later and if you need anything," and she nodded at the bedside table, "just ring and Bodhan will be up."

Hawke rounded the foot of the bed and made for the door. Not thinking clearly, Sebastian grabbed her hand as she passed. Hawke gave him a sharp look, confusion backlighting her eyes, but he didn't let go.

"Thank you," he rasped, squeezing her hand.

The frown came back to her face and Sebastian expected a chastisement, a reminder to not talk. Instead, Hawke surprised him by squeezing back. "Any time, she replied, the frown melting away and replaced by a slight smile. "But you should really thank Varric. He's the one who shot the bastard."

Sebastian coughed, fighting the laughter that bubbled in his chest. Hawke's smile grew wider and she leaned over him to put his hand on his chest. "Get some sleep, she said, voice soft.

Sebastian nodded and watched her walk to the door, then let his eyes close.

"Oh, and Sebastian?" His eyes popped open. Hawke was peering at him through a small gap in the door, green eyes alight. "No getting into my things. There are...items in this room not fit for such a devout man. Just remember that if you get the itch to fall back on old, roguish habits."

 _Maker's breath_.


	5. Varric Part I - Everything About Her

_Varric Part I_

As a storyteller, Varric believed in a lot of things.  He wasn’t sure what had come first, the belief or the storytelling.  Maybe it didn’t matter.  But what he did know was that the universe had some pretty great practical jokes up its sleeve and they were doled out in seemingly random fashion.  Sometimes that random fashion meant some poor slob was constantly bludgeoned with the short end of the good luck stick while others got everything they wanted dumped into their laps.

But those people were the exceptions, the anomalies.  Most people, and Varric could attest to this from first hand knowledge, had their fair share of good and bad happen.  They lived their lives, started families, made money, lost money, lost loved ones, and so on.  That kind of…normalcy had long convinced him that it wasn’t the baker on the corner or the cobbler up the road who made the best stories.  Normal worked for everyday life.  Hell, it was something even he strived for and he’d given up on most angles of normal a long time ago.

But his stories were about the ones who had suffered, who had overcome, and sometimes, who died.  So he spun tales about good and evil and thieves and rogues and assassins; full of tragedy and heroism and big swords and bigger personalities And people loved it.  So did his ledger.

Until one day, those stories weren’t enough.

The manuscript came back to him from his publisher with more editing notes than his three previous books combined, and then some.  He’d been staring at the pages all afternoon and had gotten nowhere.  Torn between confusion and anger, he’d pushed the manuscript aside where it sat at the far end of the table. Mocking him.

The sun had gone down and he’d balanced his ledger three times.  And that damn book was still sitting there.

_Fuck._

He’d agreed with the general editing comments and error corrections, but on page 84, one note from his editor had left him completely baffled.

_I’m seeing a familiar pattern here.  Hero loses, hero investigates, hero saves day.  It worked before, but we need more._

_You know what sells?  Love and sex. You can’t write the same book over and over again and expect to keep selling.  Do better._

How the hell was he supposed to write sex?  Love, he could do, and had done before.  Granted, it wasn’t that grand, sweeping love the bards in taverns warbled about, but it worked in the context of his stories.  Except for that one book and he’d rather forget all about Swords and Shields.  Sweet Andraste, that one was bad.

But sex?  What was he supposed to do, conjure up some dirty images and plop them on the page?

Varric sighed, pushed all of his papers aside, and thunked his head onto his desk.  

_Fuck._

Isabela teased him about his love life, or lack thereof.  Fenris smirked whenever he denied there was a secret lover in the dark.  Even Anders would give him grief.  And he’d dodge, change the subject, or laugh it off.

Because the truth was, he knew what he was missing.

For all his imagination, he had only one set of images, mostly cobbled together from glimpses of the patches of skin he’d seen when she was adjusting armor. The other pieces….well, Hawke had little in the way of modesty and more than once, she’d stumbled into his rooms dirty and bloodstreaked, leaving a trail of leather in her wake as she headed for his tub.  He never minded, eyes already averted because they were glued to paperwork or his latest manuscript.  

But all he had to do was glance up if a candle flickered or he needed more ink. And damn him to Maferath and back, because no matter how hard he tried not to, he would inevitably see a bared shoulder or a long line of thigh and he was undone.

In those moments he knew want, red and pulsing and alive and racing through his veins.  As consuming as the red lyrium that now clouded Bartrand’s mind, he knew the pull of want.  Knew its song.  It spun lyrics both beautiful and erotic and on rare occasions, he’d strain to hear them.  When he needed so much he thought he would burst, he would listen.

_He’d gasp and sigh, flesh slick and fingers trembling, eyes screwed shut so he didn’t see the bare rafters of his room.  He wanted to see only one thing:  to revisit the wings of her collarbone, the delicate bones of her ankle, the gentle curve of her waist._

And his imagination took over from there.

He couldn’t write sex, because he knew what he was missing.  No scenes in a novel would add up to what lay just beyond reach.

* * *

“So, I have a question.”

Varric looked up from his stack of papers, saw Hawke in his doorway, and motioned her inside with ink stained fingers.  When she didn’t move, he cocked his head and said, “Something wrong?”

The look on her face was a strange mixture of confusion and…well, delight, if Varric was reading her slightly parted lips and widened eyes correctly.  She shook her head, a quick, harsh motion, and said, “I just…I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

Varric chuckled dryly and plucked the wire frames from the bridge of his nose, the metal winking between his fingertips.  Varric had to reign in a smug grin to keep a straight face.  Hawke was doing wonders on his festering temper and he was grateful for her interruption.  "Well, some of us are getting old, Hawke.  If you don’t tell, I won’t let Isabela know she almost beat you the other night when you two were sparring.“  He motioned to her again and she complied, sinking into the other plush chair at his table.  "I mean, one more of those twirling leaps she does and -”

Hawke held up a hand.  "Yeah, I get it.  I’m no spring chicken either.  But you tell Isabela anything -“

"I solemnly swear it.”  

“Good.”  She snatched the glasses from him and instantly put them on her nose.  She frowned, and Varric laughed.  His eyesight was a tad worse than he ever cared to let on.  She blinked, took the glasses off, and set them down on the table between their hands.  "Now, can I ask my question?“

Varric nodded.  "If your curiosity about my piss poor eyesight is sated, sure.”

Hawke fell silent for a moment as she traced a scar in the tabletop’s wood. Varric watched her fingertips dance over the wood, feeling for every mar and imperfection.  When she looked up, her eyes were shining brightly.  And Varric immediately grew suspicious.

And worried.  Hawke wasn’t a terribly emotional person.  She preferred to deal with other people’s feelings and problems, which Varric figured either made her a masochist of incredible patience, or someone who was shitty when it came to dealing with  _their own_  feelings and problems.  He knew that unique pain rather well.  After all, he was always writing everyone else’s stories and doing his damnedest to avoid his own.

She was making him anxious now as she stared at him, then the wall, then the table.  And back to him.  "Hawke, is something bothering you?“ he ventured, knowing full well it was a dumb question.  But if she wasn’t going to start, he would.

Hawke dragged a hand over her face and finally steadied her gaze on him. "Yeah, but before you go all worry dwarf on me, it’s not anything dire.”

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.  But just so you know, the suspense is killing me.“

Hawke laughed and it sounded hoarse in his ears.  "Have you noticed anything…odd with our friends lately?”

He reached for the wine bottle at the edge of the table.  Wine sloshed into goblets as he poured, the red liquid coming dangerously close to the edge of the goblet he pushed at her.  "You mean more than the usual?“  Varric shrugged, lifted his goblet to his lips. "They’re all a little weird, Hawke.”

Hawke traced a fingertip around the rim of her goblet.  "Says the beardless surface dwarf with a penchant for half open shirts.“

"Ouch.”  He touched his chest with a dramatic flourish.  "That stung.“

Hawke rolled her eyes.  "I’m serious, Varric.  You haven’t noticed anything strange?  Anders, Fenris, Isabela, Sebastian….I feel like…”  She hung her head, sighed.  “Dammit, this feels stupid.”  Another sigh.  “I feel like they’re always watching me.”

Varric kept his face impassive but a knot was starting to form in his stomach. He knew exactly what she was talking about.  He’d seen their glances lingering, eyes darkening with more than just friendly interest.  And he’d damn himself one more time - for waiting, for wanting, and never doing anything about it.  “Watching you?”

“Yeah.  Maker’s breath, I do.  And I don’t just feel their eyes on me, I catch them.”  She lifted her head and looked at him, brow furrowed.  “And you’re looking at me like I’m talking crazy.  Great.”

She huffed and started to push out of the chair, but Varric slipped out of his chair and stood in her path.  “Now, don’t act like that, Hawke.  I don’t think you’re crazy.”  She gave him a steeled look but he didn’t flinch.  "So they’re watching you.  Does it make you uncomfortable?“

Hawke shook her head.  "No.  Yes.  I don’t know what to make of it.”  She ran a hand through her short hair.  "What am I supposed to do - ask them?“

_That’s definitely not a good idea._

Varric remembered the way Isabela had first fawned, then swooned, then gotten very serious during their conversation about Hawke.  She’d been….well, very Isabela through most of the conversation, cracking jokes and splitting euphemisms into so many parts.  But at some point, the laughter had stopped and the pirate had gone quiet.

Varric had looked at her, inquisitive more than prying,  and she had quietly said, “I know I’m not enough for her.  Look at me, Varric.  A pirate with no ship, no booty, no….anything, really.  Just a down on her luck captain who knows more than she’d care to admit about thieving and looting and plundering.”  

“And daggers,” Varric had added unhelpfully.  He’d gotten a glare from her for that.

Isabela had sighed, jabbing a finger into a knot in the table.  “And look at her. Champion.  Hero.  Saver of the day and puppies and all that rot.  Andraste’s flaming ass.”

And Isabela had left him to his books and papers and a rather decent half bottle of wine, he’d picked up his pen and started to write.

He got as far as, “To the most esteemed…”  And then it had all felt like so much bullshit.  Mostly because it was bills of lading and bunch of ass-kissing he had to do for the sake of appearances but not for his reputation.  Isabela’s words kept spinning in his head.

_Not enough for her_

_Not enough for her_

_Not good enough for her_

_Not enough for her, not good enough for her_

_Never will be_

Varric swept his gaze over Hawke’s frown, her slumped shoulders.  The tiny bit of hope flashing in her eyes didn’t make him feel any better.  “You could,” he said, trying to put a chuckle under his words.  Like everything was normal.  Like his hand wasn’t scant inches from hers.

Like his very world didn’t revolve around Hawke and everything about her.

Like he didn’t just want to dump his feelings all over the table, spilling out like gold coins that would wink in the firelight.  Just there for the taking.  

Hawke had never been one to turn down treasure.  But what he was offering had a drastically different, and much more personal, value.

And she was just staring at him now.  He coughed, then said, “Or, you could catch one of them in the act and confront them?” he offered.

“Ugh,” she said, dropping her head until it rested on the table.  “Not helping.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”  He pushed a hand through his hair in frustration, fingers tangling on the bit of string he’d found this morning, and ripped it out.  “I seem to be failing on a few fronts lately.”

Hawke’s eyebrows drew up in a line of questioning.  “Come again?”

Like a lifeline tossed to him at the last moment possible, Varric grabbed her hand and held on.  He smiled but he felt its weakness before she frowned at him.  “Nevermind.  If all that staring bothers you, Hawke, just ask them to stop.”

She shook her head, eyes narrowed.  “So you’re saying it’s just me?  I’m making too much of this?”

The words stung, like her tone, but he tightened his grip on her hand instead of pulling away.  He saw a tiny, tiny opening and he was sick of waiting.  “No, I’m saying there might be a reason for all their staring.”

She scoffed.  “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I mean, I know my dagger work is impeccable but -”

“You don’t think they see you?  You don’t think they know what’s right in front of them?”  The words fell from his lips faster than he could stop them and he didn’t care.  

He was throwing it all on the table and leaving the end result entirely up to her.

“Varric, I -”

He curled his fingers around hers, brought her arm across the table.  “You don’t think they know how beautiful you are?”  He touched her forearm with a fingertip, heard her suck in a breath as he dragged that finger over delicate skin.  

Every part of him tingled, aching for release.  He needed her to understand, in a way even he didn’t fully grasp.  “They see what everyone sees when you walk by.  This strong, gorgeous woman wrapped in leathers carrying daggers as sharp as her words on her back.  She fights for the innocent, smites the villains, and recently took down an entire army of Qunari trying to take over the city.”  

He traced a thin blue vein to the inside of her wrist and Hawke’s hand fell open to him.  He dared to look at her face and saw dark eyes boring a hole in him. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the swell of her breast flirting with the edge of her decorative leather cuirass.  That creamy swath of skin sent him reeling, and the need pounded, spiraling into a flush that spread through his entire body.

The song started up, dark and pulsing, pushing his patience and concentration to the edge.  He could see the scene so clearly -

_Bare skin glistening against the dark velvet of blankets_

_A breathy sigh reaches his ears as he trails fingers between her breasts and over quivering stomach muscles.  His fingertips can’t stop tracing artless patterns over her silky skin and he feels a little delirious, so heady with the sight and feel and smell of her._

_Leather and lavender and metal_

_And the songs starts up and he knows what he needs to do.  Whatever she wants, he’ll give her.  Her cries fray his edges, her pleading whispers undoing him to the very core._

_He sinks a finger into her warmth and imagines what she would feel like wrapped around him, pulling him into her._

_And he grows weak at the very thought._

“You’re a hero, Hawke.  The thing we love telling stories about.  But they don’t see the woman standing on the stairs, daggers dripping blood, the Arishok’s body at your feet.”  His fingers dipped into the bend of her elbow, drawing another ragged breath from her.  “They see this dark, mysterious, beautiful woman who - who -”

He trailed off, eyes tracking his own finger as it skimmed her bicep.  “That’s why they watch you.  They love you and they can’t be without you.”  

He heard her swallow hard and her voice was a harsh whisper as she said, “And you?”

He ripped his gaze from her arm and dragged it over her face.  “You undo me, Hawke.”


	6. Hawke - Her Story Part I

_She stood in the middle of an empty room.  The walls stretched on forever, the floor a never ending path to….somewhere.  Hawke turned, endless circles that made her dizzy.  She closed her eyes, trying to calm her breathing.  She didn’t like it here, this bright room with walls all around but no end._

_She breathed in, out, in, out.  Fists balled at her sides slowly loosened.  The throbbing in her head became background noise, like the sting that lingers after smacking your elbow into a door._

_When she opened her eyes, the room was gone.  Instead, she was surrounded by her friends, her sister._

_They were smiling, laughing, chatting with each other.  She stood in the middle of the circle, but they ignored her.  Aveline’s arm was slung around Fenris’s shoulders, her other hand flashing as she talked, her armor shining dully.  Merrill and Anders gripped each other about the waist, heads close together, Merrill’s painted fingers combing through his straw colored hair.  Isabela and Bethany were holding hands and swinging their arms, even though their feet didn’t move._

_Hawke blinked once, twice.  Swallowed hard.  This was wrong.  Her gut screamed it, some primal instinct that knew before her eyes saw….their smiles were too big, the laughter too loud.  She squinted, fighting her own eyes as they deceived her._

_Their laughter grew louder, the smiles wider.  And dread pooled in her stomach as the laughter stopped and each of them turned to look at her.  Their eyes were black and alien in familiar faces and Hawke stared as their canines grew longer, the tips splitting lips that shrunk into thin, grey slashes._

_“You think you can save us?” Aveline said, her voice a rasp against those sharp teeth.  Her arm tightened around Fenris’s neck.  She grinned, feral and ugly.  A drop of some viscous black liquid appeared at the corner of her mouth.  “You think you can do anything to keep us from dying?”_

_The claws of her gauntlets bit into Fenris’s neck but he didn’t flinch.  His stare never wavered from Hawke.  The claws dug in deeper, the holes they made eating away at flesh and sinew.  But he didn’t bleed._

_Not red, anyways.  It was black and thick, like the drop by Aveline’s mouth, but this bubbled like it was heated._

_Hawke gaped in horror, trying with all her strength to move, to make it stop.  But she couldn’t.  Frozen in place, breath caught in her lungs, she looked at the others and saw similar horrors._

_Anders held victim by Merrill’s razor-sharp grip, her fingernails gouging his face, leaving trails of black in their wake. Her own face grinning sickly, flesh going grey and falling off in little pieces that plopped when they hit the floor._

_Bethany wrapping her hand around Isabela’s and guiding it to those long necklaces.  Together, they pulled them out, then wrapped them around their joined hands until Isabela’s neck bulged and her eyes widened in her sockets as black, boiling tears streamed down her face.  Bethany’s smile was darker, the family resemblance disappearing as her teeth grew even longer._

_“Do you think you can save us, Marian?”_

_“Do you think you can save anything?”_

_“What makes you believe you have any strength to stop what’s coming?”_

_“To stop us.”_

_Hawke gasped and opened her eyes.  They were gone and she was in the room again, daggers in her hands and dead darkspawn and the body of her brother at her feet._

_The smell of blood filled her nostrils.  Her head rang.  And the floor shook with the thunderous steps of a darkspawn ogre._

_“Hawke!”_

_She spun, fingers tightening around the handles of her blades.  Varric stood some length away, Bianca aimed at a point behind her.  “Varric?”_

_“Darling, you must come to us.  Quickly!”_

_Confusion flitted over her face as her mother appeared behind Varric.  “Mother?  What are you -”_

_“Hawke, behind you!”_

_Hawke turned and saw the ogre headed right for her.  She took off in their direction, breath leaving her in great gasps as the horror behind her faded to black.  She could feel every heartbeat banging inside her chest, the sweat dripping down her face._

_"Take my hand!" Varric yelled, his voice echoing all around her.  "Take it!"_

_She reached out, straining, aching._

_The moment their hands touched, the ground fell out beneath her.  She tumbled, an artless heap of limbs and terror, for what seemed like ages._

_The ground she landed on smelled of bog and decay and was not solid.  Mud and Maker knew what else splashed into her eyes, her mouth.  Hawke sat up and spat before wiping a hand over her mouth._

_"Don't you see what you've done?"_

_Hawke froze.  The voice came from behind her.  The one direction she didn't want to look._

_The choice was made for her as a hand, black and rotting, yanked on her shoulder._

_Her mother lay in the muck, dead.  Varric stood over the body, looking at her with eyes white with death.  One cheek was gone, one ear hanging on by a stringy stretch of skin.  Black, boiling liquid trailed from his lips as he said, "Don't you see?  It's all your fault, Hawke."  He trailed a skeletal hand over her mother's brow.  "You don’t deserve anything after what you let happen.”_

* * *

 

Hawke always woke up in the same part of the dream, the scent of blood in her nose and the taste of decay on her tongue.  And she was always a sweating, shaking mess, her mind rattled to its core.

The solution to such an awful thing used to be easy. She went to Varric.  She always did.  It had gotten to the point where he was so used to her showing up at his door, bedraggled and wild-eyed, that he stayed up for her.  

Varric was good like that.

It was unfair, really.  Unfair of her to expect him to open the door before she knocked.  Unfair of her to take over his rooms, leaving leather and daggers in a sloppy pile in the corner before taking over his bed.  Unfair of her to expect that glass of wine or bourbon to appear in her hand and for him to sit across from her and wait for her to talk.  Unfair of her to expect….no, to know he wouldn’t soothe her because she’d think it was patronizing and instead let her speak her peace then usher her into his bed. He’d climb in beside her and talk to her until she grew tired.

And it was wholly unfair of her now to want to go to him and be unable to.  Some little, selfish part of her blamed Varric.  She could go to him now, be comforted, be kept safe.  But after the other night…

She just couldn’t.

With a sigh, Hawke pushed damp hair away from her forehead. _Dammit, Varric_ , she thought as she pulled at a loose string in the blanket slung over her knees.   _What am I supposed to do now?_

She hadn’t told anyone about Varric’s confession.  Or the way her skin had heated under his touch.  The memory of his fingers dancing over her skin plagued her.  But she couldn’t claim to be wholly surprised, either.  They’d always had a connection of sorts. Easy conversation and easier laughter, a friendship that had formed early and had been sharpened after years of all the shit they’d lived through.

But more than that, she trusted Varric.  If this problem had happened with any of her other friends, Varric would have been the one to hear about it.  And that wasn’t completely fair to Varric, was it?  It wasn’t a...problem, his confession.

But it sure as hell did leave her horribly conflicted.  And she now questioned what she wanted, and who she wanted.  Her friends were beautiful and broken and Hawke just didn’t know if she could keep up with a former captain who didn’t understand the line between business and pleasure; a former slave who was followed by his past; a former Warden who was tormented by his reality, a former First who couldn’t keep her history alive; or a former royal who didn’t know what in the hell he wanted.

Hawke was tired of “formers” and “couldn’t” and “ didn’t”.

Varric was none of that.  There was no _former_ to Varric.  Just the surface dwarf who joked often enough to hide his own problems.  He didn’t make demands on her, didn’t need her to get him out of a jam.

What he asked of her now came with a clear price and bigger rewards, but there were consequences to stepping over that line between friend and lover.

Being….with Varric meant eclipsing that friendship.  It meant accepting his fondness for her as more than friendly interest and recognizing him as _more_.

Hawke didn’t know what to do with _more_.

 


	7. Varric Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breaking canon is hard work.

He’d done a lot of things in his lifetime.  It’d be easy to assume he told his life in stories, exaggerations and white lies absconding the real truth.  But he told the stories of others, their lives far more fascinating and easier to deal with than his own.

No, his life was told as a series of transactions.  Buy one business, sell three. Draft two proposals for the Merchant’s Guild, get four letters back in reply. Drop the right amount of coin in the proper hand, and suddenly the thieves stealing your cargo were dead, five corpses thrown out to the Waking Sea, never to be found.

Numbers and ledgers and ink-stained hands were the hallmarks of his tale. But there was one part of the story that couldn’t be quantified that way.

And she was standing on his doorstep while he held a fork aloft.

“Bianca?”

The woman smiled.  “The one and only.  Now are you going to invite me in or keep brandishing that fork at me?”

He stood to the side so she could step over the threshold, and then shut the door only after looking both ways down the candlelit hallway.  “Maferath’s balls, Bianca, what are you doing here?”

The woman in question had already made herself at home at his table.  She plucked a grape from his plate and he frowned.   _And now she’s making friends with my dinner._   “Bianca, you can’t be here,” he said, straining to keep his tone even.  

Bianca popped another grape in her mouth and chewed slowly as she looked him over.  Her gaze branded him to the point where he could feel the sweat sliding down his spine and settling uncomfortably in the waistband of his trousers.  “Gonna need an answer here,” he said as he turned away from her and to the fire.

“I thought you’d be happy to see me.  I don’t hear from you for almost a year and this is the reception I get?”  She slid from her chair and came to stand beside him.  “I’d be willing to forgive the lack of letters if we can talk a little business.”  She leaned in, smiled.  “And we can always pick up right where we left off.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied quickly.  Hawke’s beautiful, stricken face floated in front of him and he blinked.  “Now’s not the best time, Bianca.”

She laughed softly, edged closer to him.  “There’s never a good time.  We’re supposed to be leagues away from each other at all times, but that’s never stopped us before.”  Her shoulder brushed his and he pulled back.  Something indescribable crossed her face at the slight but she stood her ground.  “Okay, fine.  Let’s just do business then.  Money and contracts and all that.”

Varric shook his head.  “I don’t think so.”

She crossed her arms, eyes now hot on him - it was a different heat from before, now born of anger and….dammit, hurt.  He hadn’t wanted this, not at all.  “And don’t give me this ‘it’s not a good time’ bullshit.  I don’t want to hear it.”  She huffed, paused, then a small smile stole over her face.  “Are you worried about me, Varric?  What is it now?  Coterie?  Carta?  Some vague threats besmirching my person you don’t want me to know about?  I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

He couldn’t look at her.  Wouldn’t look at her.  Hand on the fireplace mantle, he stared into the flames.   _Andraste’s flaming tits, why now?_    _Why now, of all times?_   He bit the inside of his cheek, willed himself not to scream.   _I just screwed up the one relationship that meant everything to me.  Hawke won’t even speak to me, hasn’t in a week.  Now the other thing in my life that I messed up wants back in?_

_I can’t keep doing this.  I need to fix it.  I need to fix all of it._

He lifted his head and looked at Bianca.   _Starting now._

“For once, this has nothing to do with you,” he said calmly.  “Now isn’t a good time, Bianca.  And it never will be, not anymore.”

Her eyebrows shot up, all teasing now gone from her tone.  “Varric, what are you -”

His hand tightened against the rough stone of the fireplace.  “For Maker’s sake, you’re married.  You have been for years, and yet we keep….what? What exactly have we been doing all this time?”  

He whirled on her, suddenly, ferociously angry.  At himself, at her, at the realization that he could have straightened this out ages ago.  Or better yet, never started.   _But I’m a selfish bastard who just wouldn’t let it alone.  I couldn’t give up the woman who left me standing there in front of the justice like some poor sap who had more heart than brains.  And then I chased her with letters and pretty promises across three countries.  And then she got married for real and I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyways._

“It’s an affair, Bianca.”  He spat the word  _affair_  like the ugly thing it was. “You’ve been cheating on your husband and I’m the selfish bastard who keeps bedding a married woman.”  His fist balled at his side.  “It’s not right.  And it stops now.”

A flurry of emotions flitted across her face but in a few seconds, hurt registered, leaving her frowning, her brown eyes now sad.  “You can’t be serious.”

“As I’ve ever been about anything in my life, and that includes my crossbow.”

She stepped back like she’d been struck.  “Maker’s breath, you are serious.” He kept silent, watched her backpedal a few more steps.  “So I came all this way for….nothing?  That’s it?  We’re just done?”

“We’re done.”  His voice was dead, weighed down by so much karmic bullshit and a hell of a lot of guilt.  “You’d better leave.”

Bianca stared at him, mouth slightly agape.  She took a stuttering breath and finally said, “Okay.  If that’s how you feel - and you clearly feel strongly about this - I’ll go.”  She brushed by him, didn’t stop until she reached his door.  “But you’re wrong about one thing.”

Sadness stole across her face.  “It was never an affair for me.”

Varric turned back to the fire and listened to the door to his suite open.  He heard her footsteps echo down the hall and her low voice now gruff as she barked, “Get out of my way.  Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners? Lingering in dark hallways is a good way to get stabbed in the eye.”

He chuckled wearily.  It was the only thing he had left.  He felt like he’d been wrung out and stretched thin, like a nug skin over a tanner’s rack.  She always did need to have the last word, even if it was at some poor drunk propped up in the hallway.

And now it was done.  He needed to move on, and that started with finding a way to apologize to Hawke.  If he thought too much about what just happened, about what he just did…

_Shit._

He shot a glance over at his crossbow nestled in a low chair.  “Come on, baby, let’s go find Hawke.”


	8. Her Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the additional canon breakage and heartache. I have to pull them apart before I put them together again.

Hawke was a mess of wet leathers and stringy hair and frazzled nerves as she pushed open the door to the Hanged Man.  She’d given herself a week to get her shit together, and it had been seven days too long.  She’d started missing him just hours after her self-imposed exile.  She’d ambled aimlessly around her house, rearranging piles of paperwork and stacks of letters until Bodhan shooed her away.  She’d finally flung herself into a chair and stared at the ceiling until Courage bounded into the room and dropped a slimy ball of twine into her lap.

“You always know how to cheer me up,” she’d said dryly, unable to keep frowning while the Mabari sat at her feet and wagged his stumpy tail.  “Now if you could tell me how to fix this fucking mess I’ve made with Varric, I’d owe you big time.  As in all the meat you can eat for the rest of your life.”  Courage had perked up at that, big brown eyes now tracking her every move.  She had laughed softly, patted his head.  “Go tell Bodhan you’re hungry.  I’m sure he has something for you.”

The dog then had bounded off, tongue wagging and Hawke had sank back into her chair, the momentary diversion now gone and she was free to slump back into melancholy.

She’d done everything she could think of to avoid Varric.  No traipsing into Lowtown after rounding up slavers (which confused Isabela and Anders, but she couldn’t bring herself to explain.  What was she supposed to say? _By the way, all your staring unnerves me and I told Varric that and then he told me he loves me.  Kind of.  Very confusing.  Must go!_ )  And in contrast, she and Courage had spent nights at Fenris’s mansion, helping him explore the cavernous cellars, digging for old wine bottles like they were gold.  Fenris didn’t say much on good days and didn’t question her choice of company even when they stood hip to hip, surveying their dusty, alcoholic domain.

And now seven days later, she was stuck in the same spot she’d started out - lonely, confused, heartbroken - but her feet had led her to him, anyways.  Maybe it was the loneliness.  Maybe the dreams were bothering her more than she cared to admit.

Or maybe she just missed having him close.  

Anxiety churned in her stomach, so much that she ignored the calls of the barkeepers and regulars and barely registered the Qunari in the corner.  None of it mattered.

She needed answers.  She needed to make things right.  Maybe those weren’t completely mutual goals but they did boil down to finding Varric and sorting it out.

It would be messy.  There’d probably be yelling.  Or tears.  Perhaps both.  But it didn’t matter.

She’d dump her confusion and heartache and the burning, unanswered questions out all at once and hope for the best.

The hallway to Varric’s suite was dark, so she grabbed the one lit torch nearby and started to light the others.  

Torch.  Fire.  Torch.  Fire.  Torch….

“Now isn’t a good time, Bianca.  And it never will be, not anymore.”

Hawke froze a door down from Varric’s suite.  He was angry, she could tell.  To anyone else, he’d sound calm, collected.  But the bite in his words was unmistakable.

There was a pause, and then she heard another voice say, “Varric, what are you -”

Hawke didn’t recognize that voice - female. And named _Bianca_.

 _Bianca_.   _Holy shit.  So he hadn’t been kidding about the name all this time._  For some inexplicable reason, this bothered her.  The anxiety in her gut twisted more, morphing into something that had her heart pounding.

But what came next was even worse.

“For Maker’s sake, you’re _married_.  You have been for years, and yet we keep….what?  What exactly have we been doing all this time?”

Implications swirled in her mind - what was he talking about?  Who was this woman to him?  Varric told her everything but this….she knew nothing about what was going on.  And despite the little voice inside her that railed against the morality of eavesdropping on a private conversation - one of _Varric’s_ private conversations - she stood still, barely breathing, not wanting to miss a word.

“It’s an affair, Bianca.” Varric’s voice was ugly now, a snarling, growling thing that she’d never heard before.  And never wanted to hear again.  “You’ve been cheating on your husband and I’m the selfish bastard who keeps bedding a married woman.  It’s not right.  And it stops now.”

Heart thudding in her ears, Hawke saw the torch drop to the ground.  But she didn’t bother to pick it up.   _He….her?  Together?_  Her chest was too tight, her hands too cold.  And she honestly didn’t know how to react.

She was frozen in place, spying and snooping on the most intimate part of her best friend’s life.

A life he’d deliberately chosen to hide from her.  And about the woman he’d named his _bloody crossbow_ after.

“You can’t be serious.”  There was the woman again.  Hawke leaned against the wall, hand on her chest.

“As I’ve ever been about anything in my life, and that includes my crossbow.”

If she’d been in a better mental state, Hawke might have laughed at just how serious he sounded.

“Maker’s breath, you _are_ serious.  So I came all this way for….nothing?  That’s it?  We’re just done?”

“We’re done.  You’d better leave.”

“Okay.  If that’s how you feel - and you clearly feel strongly about this - I’ll go. But you’re wrong about one thing.”  A pause, and then…. “It was never an affair for me.”

The door to Varric’s suite banged open and a dwarven woman with bright blue eyes came right for her.

_Move.   Hawke, you have to move._

But despite the danger, she wanted to see this woman up close, in fresh torchlight.  But she’d missed lighting that last torch and instead they collided. Hawke leaned heavily into the wall but the woman got the worst of it, banging her arm into Hawke’s heavy armor.

“Get out of my way.  Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”  The woman rubbed her forearm and glared at her.  “Lingering in dark hallways is a good way to get stabbed in the eye.”

And then she was gone, swallowed up by the haze of the tavern’s outer room.

Light spilled from Varric’s suite but Hawke couldn’t move just yet.  She stayed crumpled against the wall, mind blessedly blank for a moment. _I’ll just stay here for a few more breaths, then I’m leaving.  And drowning myself in a bottle of shitty wine while my dog sleeps on my feet._

And because of course that’s how her life worked, that was when Varric, in full armor and with Bianca strapped across his back, came charging into the hallway.

“Hawke?”  Varric practically skidded to a stop when he saw her.  “Why are you - what’s going on?”

The sound of his voice, after being out of his company for a week, hurt almost as much as the truth that flooded her mind at that moment.

He’d been having an affair with that woman - a married woman.  For what had sounded like years.  

And he’d never told me.

_He’d been having an affair - no, **sleeping with** that woman while telling me how he felt.  He’d touched that woman with the same hands as he’s touched me a thousand times and when it…_

_When it meant something, really meant something to me, to us….he still didn’t tell me that I was going to be the **other woman**._

When she didn’t say anything, Varric strode over to her and offered his hand. “Come on.  Let’s get you up and -”

Hawke snatched her hand away from his.  She felt cheap, used.  “Don’t,” she snapped.  “Don’t play me, Varric.”  Her lips pulled back in a snarl and she said, “I heard you and that woman.”  She clenched her jaw.  “Bianca.  Did I get that right?”

Varric’s face instantly dropped, all pretense of being happy to see her after such a difficult conversation vanished.  “You heard us?”  

To his credit, he didn’t deny it.  It would be of no use, anyways.  But what gave her pause, for the slightest moment, was watching the light leave his eyes.  

The first time she’d ever killed a man, she’d seen the life leave his body through murky green eyes.  And now she was watching something very - eerily - similar happen as Varric stared at her.  

She felt sick to her stomach.  So she fled, his beckoning cries ringing down the hallway and in her ears as she ran as fast as she could, away and out into the night.


	9. Heart - Part I

  
“I’m not sure how this plan of yours -”

  
“Well, it’s not mine entirely. Histan in the Alienage first came up with it and then I just added a few ideas. Oh, but so did Bellana and her sister, though I can’t remember her name...so I guess it’s all of us, I mean, our plan….”

  
Aveline bit back the urge to put her palm to her face. Since she was still wearing most of her armor, that would have been a very painful thing to do. Instead, she crossed her arms and flinched when she heard a grinding noise come from the area of her left shoulder. _I'm going down to the armory just as soon as I'm done here_.

  
She stared down at Merrill, who was still talking about her plans for a day of “Elven heritage celebration” in the alienage. Maker help me, she thought. _If she doesn't kill herself trying to restore that damn mirror, she'll have the city in an uproar with this celebration._ “Merrill,” she said, interrupting her own thoughts and cutting the elf off mid sentence, “am I the only person you've talked to about this celebration?”

  
Merrill blinked at the guard captain. “No, you're the first.”

  
“Ah,” Aveline said. “I had a feeling.”

  
“Why, should I tell someone else? Histan said something about keeping our plans quiet until he had a few more things in place-”

  
“Merrill.”

  
Merrill froze in her seat. “Oh dear. I know that voice. That's the same voice you use when we have to save Isabela or when Hawke does something crazy.” Realization dawned on her face and she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You think I should tell Hawke, don't you?”

  
Aveline sighed. “I don't think we need to bother her just yet.” She resigned herself to unraveling the sinister plot Histan had behind the elven heritage celebration and saving Merrill from whatever peril lay ahead….all without getting Hawke involved.

  
She'd seen little of the rogue lately, too busy captaining guards and trying to keep the entire city from unraveling. The Arishok’s death had been bad enough and Aveline had spent more time dealing with the aftermath (which included a lot of claims for burned merchandise and burned bodies). And then there was Hawke, who since being named Champion, had been spending more and more time in the dusty dark of her estate.

  
On some level she understood. Hawke had never been one to chase the spotlight. One of the things she admired about Adelaide Hawke was how she rarely did anything unnecessary. Deep Roads Expedition? Necessary to reestablish the family name and support her mother and sister. All those trips out to the Wounded Coast? Except for that one time with the cave spiders, necessary to help maintain the fragile peace between the mages, Templars, city guard, and Qunari. Killing the Arishok? Certainly necessary, or they risked the city under control of the Qun.

 

That jewel heist, though…..She smiled slightly at the memory. Not necessary and in hindsight, incredibly stupid. But she had to admit it made for a good story.

  
She shook her head, still smiling. “Merrill,” she said, trying not to let her impatience show, “when was the last time you saw Hawke?”

  
The elf paused, eyes sliding skyward as she thought. “It's been a while, I think. Last full moon, maybe?”

  
Determination settled in Aveline’s bones. It had been a while since she'd seen her friend and that needed to be rectified. “Exactly.”

  
“What?” Merrill’s lips turned down in confusion.

  
The dagger she kept in her desk drawer was sheathed at her hip with a snick and she crooked a finger at Merrill. The armory could wait. “Come on. We’re going to find Hawke.”

 

* * *

It was not in her nature to run.

  
_That first night after she and Carver had joined King Cailan’s army, they'd sat outside her tent and watched the King’s elite troops march by. Their armor gleamed even in the oily lantern smoke that curled around them, and their faces were a single blank mask of concentration and dedication._

_  
Carver had whistled low and soft under his breath. “Now that's an army.”_

  
_His words were admiring, but his tone was stuck between awe and fear. Joining the army had been his idea but once their boots had struck the muddy ground just outside of Lothering, he'd been quieter, more solemn. Oh, he still bragged about the darkspawn he’d kill and how he'd impress the colonels and lieutenants, but Hawke knew her baby brother.  
The bravado masked a quiet fear. The one that whispered, “You’ll never be better than her” and “You'll die out there, never see home again”._

_  
When she woke up the next morning to the sound of horses whinnying and chatter from nearby tents, she found Carver waiting for her. He was fully dressed and armed to the teeth, sitting on a boulder between her tent and her neighbor’s. He looked up as she approached._

  
“ _Looks like we head out today,” she said by way of greeting as she adjusted the knife sheaths on her belt._

_  
He continued to stare down at the ground. Hawke approached her brother slowly. “Did you already report to the armory? From the steel on your belt, it looks like you did-”_

_  
“We shouldn't be here.”_

_  
That made Hawke stop. “Carver?” His name came out like a question, the tone rougher than she intended._

_  
He pulled his head up, dark eyes shining at her, a snarl on his lips. “You heard me.”_

_  
She strode toward him now, worry gnawing at her gut even in the face of his aggression. She knew her brother, in a way her mother or Bethany never would. She used to think it was the burden of being the oldest sibling, but not long into her puberty years she realized it was because she understood Carver. She understood his anger and his quick-fire temper._

_  
Carver voiced many of the things she wished she could allow herself to feel. The things she had buried deep after Father died and she had to take care of everyone. Her anger had been washed away in the gray waters of the mop buckets she carried from house to house, village to village, in search of a few coins to keep them in week old bread and dried out radishes._

_  
Enough to survive, but not live on. That had been the Hawke family motto for years, while Carver and Bethany were too little to hire themselves out to the crop farmers and livestock raisers and while Mother refused to set foot past their tiny, scrubby yard._

  
_And now they'd left that all behind - the bare yard with single clothesline, their ramshackle hut, Lothering, Mother, Bethany. They were leagues from home, in hostile territory, surrounded by war hardened soldiers who had signed up for King and country._

_  
They'd signed up because the money was good and they couldn't stand looking at those cracked, dry walls or their mother’s hollow cheeks one more day._

_  
Carver launched himself from the rock, shaking her from her memories. Rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders and she looked up into his face. The snarl was still on his lips, but the anger had left his eyes. “We need to go. Now.”_

_  
“Carver, I -” She turned, saw a small group of soldiers walk by, then turned back. “What brought this on?”_

  
_He shook his head, let go of her, stepped back. “I thought maybe if we got out of Lothering, it would be better. But it’s not, is it?” He pointed behind her to the soldiers who were fading away into the distance. “We’re a part of this - this machine now. Just another couple of soldiers for the King.”_

_  
She frowned. “I thought this was what you wanted.”_

_  
He shrugged. “I was wrong.”_

_  
He said it so easily, so nonchalantly, that she rocked back in her heels. “And that’s it?” Rage bubbled low in her gut. “We left Lothering, we left Mother and Bethany. And now you want to….what? Run?”_

  
_He hissed at her between his teeth. “Don’t say it so loudly!”_

_  
With a quick step forward, Hawke wrapped her fist in his collar and drug him to her tent. He might be bigger but she’d been training with knives, bows, and spears since she was five. And cowing her younger brother for almost as long._

_  
Carver yelped and complained the whole one hundred feet to her tent, and huffed loudly at her when she pushed him to the threadbare blanket folded in the corner. “Talk. Now.”_

_  
And after two hours of mild bullying and pleading, Hawke had the story._

  
_Carver was afraid. He both wanted and feared the war. The darkspawn. The dented weapons and second-hand armor. He’d dove headlong into a fantasy of victory and glory, spurred on by snatches of tales told in the tavern and conversations with those passing through their little village._

_  
But last night, the screams of the wounded as legs and arms were amputated in hopes of staving off the darkspawn taint had kept him awake. His ears had rang, his eyes stinging in the amber-hued light that bounced around his tent.  He’d lain there and listened with his heart in his throat and his stomach on the verge of revolt._

_  
She knew because that’s how she’d felt. And no amount of her prodding and pleading with him could get him to admit it. But the hollow look in his eyes gave her more than she needed._

  
And it had been the same look on his face when he’d died. Hollow. Empty. Just a void where a soul had been.

  
Hawke ran, hard and fast. Kirkwall blurred by her, as fast as her breath entered and left her lungs. She ran until her feet were sore and hot, her heels scraped raw by the leather of her boots.  She ran until she saw the ocean and knew she hadn’t gone far enough yet.

  
It wasn’t in her nature to run but now, it was the only thing she needed.

  
Seagulls cried overhead. Hawke lifted her eyes to the dark gray clouds and watched the birds wheel in lazy circles. She stood at the edge of the beach, waiting.

  
The gulls cried, the waves lapped at her feet, and the air smelled of brine.  It was as far away from home as she could get without setting foot on a ship, and still it wasn’t far enough.

  
Hawke sank to her knees in the sand as despair flooded her lungs, stifling her cries.

 

* * *

  
“Knight Captain! Over here!”

  
One of the newer Templar recruits waved frantically at him. Cullen frowned. _Merciful Maker, what has the boy gotten into now? First cave spiders, now...well, whatever it is, it can’t be good._

  
The Templar recruit waved again, then pointed down the beach. Cullen jogged over, one hand on the pommel of his sword. As he neared, the pointing became a stabbing motion.

  
“Recruit?” He bit out the word harder than he intended, but the youngster didn’t seem offended.

  
“Someone washed up on shore!” The young man’s brown eyes were bright with interest. “The brother Templars -”

  
Cullen grimaced. “Please don’t refer to them like that.”

  
Neither his expression nor his words deflated the man. “I got sent back to find you. One of the Circle mages is with her now.”

  
_Her?_

  
Cullen squinted against the gloom to examine the water. No signs of a shipwreck. An attack of some kind?

  
He followed the recruit’s sandy footsteps down the beach and around a cliff outcropping. Two Templars in full regalia - Hightower and Smythe - were looming over the Circle mage who was tending to a dark haired figure dressed in soaked leathers.

  
The mage passed her hand over the prone figure’s forehead, a pulse of magic flaring bright and green in her palm. Cullen hung back, assured by the subtle nods from his Templar brothers that all was right.

  
His plan to wait until the healer was done was interrupted by a gasp. The Templar recruit gawked and pointed at the figure.  
The boy swiveled his head from side to side so hard Cullen thought he might dislocate it from his neck. “What it is?”

  
More gasping. More pointing. After a hard nudge in his side, the boy wheezed, “The Champion!”

  
Cullen strode forward, unable to believe it.

  
When Hawke’s face came into view, he bit back a curse.

  
Keeping this from the Knight Commander would be impossible.

 

* * *

  
“Brother Sebastian!”

  
Sebastian turned on his heel, readying himself for the Mother’s words. _Maker forgive me but I don't think I can handle another one of Mother Amalda’s lectures on the lack of piety in the city’s youth or not so subtle remarks about my faith._

  
But Mother Amalda wasn't squinting and frowning at him. Instead, her eyes were wide with shock. She frantically waved him over. Sebastian saw the dull gleam of Templar armor behind her and abided her waving.

  
He'd only met the Knight Captain a few times but the first thing he'd noticed was the way the man walked. Long, ground eating strides, full of purpose and strength. A hard thing to do in that armor, with sword at one’s side. Sebastian was used to leathers and light mail armor; he'd never have the mobility he needed wearing that weight.

  
But the Knight Captain was not walking at his normal pace now. And as he crested the stairs, Sebastian saw why.

  
He was carrying a dark figure in his arms and his face creased with worry. Light from the high upper windows of the Chantry sent beams of moonlight racing across the thick carpets where he and Mother Amalda stood, and when the Knight Commander crossed into them, Sebastian felt shock ripple across his body.

  
Cullen was cradling Hawke against his chest.

  
Sebastian raced forward, forcing Cullen to halt mid-step. He couldn't bear the thought, but the words came out anyways. “Is she….”

  
“She's alive,” Cullen replied grimly. “We found her on the west beach of the Wounded Coast. It didn't look like she'd been there long. Hytensia, the Circle Mage who was with us, healed the scrapes and bruises on her hands and feet but-”

  
Impatience and worry rose up in him like a wave. Sebastian wanted to deck the man. “But what?”

  
“There is a wound that needs further treatment. That is why we’re here.” Cullen nodded at the stairs. “We need a room. We already sent a runner to the Circle for their best healer.”

  
Sebastian waved a hand toward the upper floor. “Use mine.” Cullen made to move past him but Sebastian stepped in his path. “Let me. She's my - my friend.”

  
Hesitation showed on the Templar’s face, but only for a moment. With surprising gentleness, Cullen passed Hawke to him. Sebastian nodded. “And call off your runner, Knight Commander. I know the best healer in Kirkwall.”

  
Hightower, one of the other Templars, snorted. Sebastian had forgotten the other men were there until now. “I doubt that.”

  
Sebastian’s eyes hardened. “Get the Guard Captain to retrieve him. She'll know who I'm talking about.”

  
Cullen tried to stare him down. “Do I know this mage? Should I?”

  
Sebastian shook his head and started up the stairs. He didn't want them to know how rattled he was, so he kept his back turned as he replied, “Does it matter? Do you want to risk the Champion’s health for one mage?”

  
He didn't wait for Cullen’s answer. The change of armored footsteps and the bark in Cullen’s voice gave him the answer he needed. His entire focus was on the limp, seawater-soaked body in his arms.

  
_Maker’s mercy, what happened?_


	10. Heart Part II

“I’m sorry, Guard Captain, but I haven’t seen her in almost a day.”

Aveline sighed, turning a slow circle in Hawke’s brightly lit parlor.  “Nothing?”

Bodhan shrugged apologetically.  “I saw her before she headed out to see Master Tethras.  She said she’d be back before dawn.”

Merrill walked over to Aveline, her hands full of crumpled pieces of paper. “Nothing in Hawke’s desk.  Maybe she picked up a bounty and wanted to take Varric with her?”

Aveline shook her head.  She didn’t like this - Hawke leaving without reporting to someone, even Bodhan, was strange.  She knew something was wrong but had no evidence to prove it.  And as Guard Captain, her instincts screamed at her to get some evidence.  

 _Who better to snoop around than a thief?_  “Merrill, do you know where Isabela might be?”

Merrill tapped her chin with a finger as she turned to look out the high windows.  “Probably at The Hanged Man.  If not, then The Blooming Rose.”

“Right.  Of course.  Why should I be surprised?” She shook her head.  “Can you go track her down and bring her here?  She spends more time here than anyone - she might be able to help me find any trace of where Hawke went.”

Merrill nodded and ran toward the door.  She stopped and turned back to Aveline, worry marring the young elf’s pretty features.  “Aveline, has something bad happened to Hawke?”

Aveline sighed.  “I don’t know, Merrill.  I really don’t.”  She looked back toward Hawke’s desk.  “But I hope not, for all our sakes.”

* * *

 

Hawke’s senses awoke one at a time.

She smelled incense and ash floating amidst stale air.

Her throat was raw, her voice hidden somewhere in a corner of her mind.  That was all right, she wasn’t up to talking just yet.

The voice praying over her was not immediately familiar.  But it was praying.

And when she opened her eyes, her hunches were confirmed.  The shadowy room of a certain prince turned Chantry brother.  The dark blonde head of the Knight Captain, his armor gleaming dully in the low light.  He was incredibly close to her, his head bowed, voice soft as he prayed.  She didn’t move, thinking it disrespectful to interrupt him mid-Chant.  So she listened.

His voice was soft but the precise absolution in it - the voice of someone who, despite anything that had happened in his life, still _believed_ and did so with an open heart - moved her.  She’d never been big on the Chantry, finding their ways too methodical and repressive, their beliefs unwilling to bend in the face of the real struggles of real people.  The Chantry in Lothering had done little to help the Hawke family after her father’s death and her mother’s descent into darkness.  They’d sent a Sister around a few times, early on, once even with two day old bread and a questionable leg of lamb.  It had made a decent stew, certainly better than anything they’d eaten in a week.

But she’d never truly believed.  It had been comforting for a while, when she was younger, to think that some great power watched over its’ creations, keeping them safe and warm with food in their bellies and a livelihood that, while hard, wasn’t unbearable.

And then her father died and she had to become an adult on that same night, while fighting tears and a hollow pit in her heart.  Her belief was not strong enough to endure such loss, especially as she watched her father’s body be carried to the pyre and set alight.  

_“It’s how the Chantry handles those who are - who are…”_

Her mother had trailed off, unable to say the word “dead”, like doing so would be accepting that her husband was gone.  

No, her belief had never been strong.  But she’d always admired those who did believe the way Sebastian, and apparently Cullen, did.  They were adamant there was a Maker and he loved his children.  It’s why they served the Chantry and the Templars.  Their belief was pure, a thing made of light and love and a belief so powerful it could change a person’s life and lead them to serve others.  It wasn’t that dark, ugly belief that existed after hope was gone and all that was left was the path to power, to _rule_ over others.  Hawke knew the difference, had seen it in the eyes of so many Templars as they’d crossed through Lothering on their way to the Ferelden Circle or lands beyond.  It was the kind of look she’d hoped, and yes, prayed, would never be directed at Bethany.

It was a look of hate and fear, and she knew there was no way that any Templar who wore that look could treat a mage as a person.

So she laid there, listening.  Cullen’s soft words curled in her ears, trying to rekindle that long-gone belief.  She admired the attempt but knew it was futile.  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire it, and the man who spoke those words.

He was a Templar.  He had a very Templar-like stance on mages.  But he wasn’t a cruel man.  Hawke knew cruelty and Knight Captain Cullen wasn’t that.  Fervent in belief also meant that even the most well-meaning people could too unbending in their thinking.  Cullen could be reasoned with.  She traveled often with an apostate just paces behind her and she knew Cullen held his tongue.  

He was a Templar, and he wore the Templar armor and the Chantry’s beliefs. But he was also a person, one with a particular blindness when it came to her. And she was most aware of that.

She sighed and Cullen jerked his head up, prayer cut off as his mouth dropped open.  “Maker’s mercy, you’re awake!” he cried softly.  He stood immediately, turning toward the door of the small room.  “I’ll get Brother Sebastian and the sisters who’ve been looking after you.”

She tried to say - more like croak - his name, but Cullen was already disappearing into the darkened doorway.  Hawke hit the blanket with a fist and pain, sharp and immediate, shot up her arm.  She looked down and saw a large bandage wrapped around her wrist.  Wincing with effort, she pulled her arm up to her face and inspected the bandage.

_I’d know that wrap work anywhere.  Anders was here.  In the Chantry. Maferath’s balls, I must have been bad off for him to set foot in here._

The sound of hurried footsteps and many voices scrambling to outdo one another raced down the hallway and were quickly in her little room.  Cullen, Sebastian, a Chantry sister she didn’t recognize and…

“Anders?”  She flinched, her voice rusty.  

But the mage didn’t seem to mind a bit. Indeed, he hustled over, worry creasing his face and making the lines around his eyes deepen.  “Hawke.”

Her name said like that was more than a statement.  It was an indictment of his worry, his anxiety, and even some anger.  His hands shook as he reached for her.  “No, don’t speak.  Your eyes are open and you’re breathing.  I’ll take that as a gift for now.  We’ll work on speaking later.”

Anders turned and waved his hands at the little group clustered behind him.  “I need you all to leave.  My patient needs her bandages changed and we don’t need an audience as well.”

“I’m staying,” Sebastian said, a stubborn note in his voice.

Anders put a hand on the man’s shoulder and shoved gently.  “No, you’re not.  I didn’t let you stay before and nothing has changed now.”

“She’s awake,” Sebastian argued.

“And still badly wounded, which means whatever happened to her isn’t important right now.  Her health is my priority.  If you want to grill her later, do so after she’s rested and healed.”

“He’s right, Brother Sebastian,” Cullen said quietly.  “Let’s leave the...healer and his patient alone. For now.”

Anders waited until the men trudged out, ignoring the last look Sebastian shot at him. _Maybe Varric is wrong about that Choir Boy moniker he keeps using, he thought. Because that was not a kind or gentle look, especially from a Chantry Brother._

The door closed and Anders turned to her.  “I won’t ask.  Not yet.  How you wound up like this isn’t as important as you being alive.”

“Anders - “

He cut her off for the second time.  “Don’t.  Not right now.  We’ll deal with….whatever this is later.”  He sat beside her, now occupying Cullen’s chair, and gently pulled back the blankets.  “You had very serious wounds and I need to look at them.”

Hawke sighed, more raspy rattle than sound of our exasperation.  “So you’re all business right now?”

He nodded, still pulling.  “Until I know whether or not any of your wounds are infected-”

“And you can just do that without peppering me with a million questions?”

He smiled slightly, sadly, at that.  “I’m not them, if that’s what you mean.”

“Even I know better than to make that assumption.  You have as much in common with Sebastian as I do with Fenris.  And you’re both human.”

Anders snorted at that.  The last of the blankets were pulled to the foot of the bed and what he saw made him sigh.  Garish red gashes marred the pristine white of the bandages over her shoulder, lower ribs, right forearm, and abdomen.  To protect both her and him, he’d left her underclothes on, and they covered just enough for modesty.

But by the way Hawke was squirming and refusing to meet his eyes, it wasn’t enough.

“Stop fussing, you’ll make it worse,” he said, placing both hands on her upper arms.  “All of these need changed.  And you really should change clothes.  If you haven’t pulled out all of your stitches, we might be able to get you into the tub.”  He reached down beside him and pulled up a cloth bag.  “From Bodhan.”

“Never let me forget that man’s thoughtfulness and generosity,” Hawke said, finally stilling.

“I’ll make sure to tell him you said that.”

Hawke grabbed the bag, opened it, and breathed deeply.  “Sweet Maker, he packed soap?”

Anders chuckled.  “Unhelpful, ungrateful patients don’t get baths.”

Hawke instantly closed the bag and set it beside her.  “As long as you promise.”

“I swear.”

“Fine.”  She held out her arms.  “Fix me.”

Anders raised a golden eyebrow at that.  “I think you need far more than some herbs and a bit of healing magic for that.”  

The comment hung in the air between them, bitter and crisp like his tone had been.  She hated this - this…. _uneasiness_ between them, sourced from some uncomfortableness on his end that she could never suss out and her anger and pain.  All of it was a wedge between them, between her and all of her friends.

She’d let it get this far.  And she’d been injured, gravely so, because she’d let her emotions run away.  She’d thrown sensibility and reason out the window and was now here because of it.

She watched Anders work, trying to distance herself from both him and the pain in her body.  Her wounds stung when exposed to cold air and even the warmth in his hands or the balm he rubbed over her skin didn’t help.  She stared up at the ceiling, counting water spots and cobwebs as he worked, trying desperately to ignore his stare.  

Despite his earlier words, he wanted to know what had happened.  And if he’d asked her now, she’d have to tell him the truth.

She had no fucking idea.

“Done,” he finally said, the word more a sigh of relief than a statement.  

“Yeah?”  She looked down and saw fresh bandages.  “You work fast.”  She swallowed hard.  “Thanks.”

A glass of water appeared in his hand and she reached for it, her movement quick with greediness.  “Go easy,” he said, watching her drink.  “You’ve been through some shock and with all the blood loss…”

She winced, lowering the glass to eye him carefully.  “That bad?”

He nodded.  “I’d guess cave spiders but there was no evidence of poison.  Plus the wounds look more like slashes instead of punctures, so -”

“Darkspawn,” she whispered, refusing to look at him.

He was silent for a long moment, tapping his chin with a finger.  Hawke could see the rhythmic _tap, tap, tap_ out of the corner of her eye.  “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

That made her jerk her eyes over to him.  Her cheeks flushed.  “Because I owe you an explanation?”

His eyes narrowed and he stood abruptly, so fast his chair rocked backwards.  Anders steadied it with a hand, fingers curling into the wood.  He took several deep breaths before saying, “You’re an adult, Hawke, so no, you don’t.  But for those of us who were worried sick over your disappearance, it might be reassuring to know what happened.  To know where you went.”

“I didn’t mean to worry any-”

He stopped her with a hand.  “Don’t.”  

Hawke sucked in a breath, the explanation and apology for her behavior threatening to boil over and spill out between her lips.  “You don’t want to know?”

Anders reached for the various jars and bottles of balms he’d brought with him.  He wanted to sweep them all up into his little bag and walk away without another word, but his worry and his anger at her stilled his movements.  “I desperately want to know what happened, what foolishness led you to this state,” he said as evenly as possible, “but I don’t think I’m ready for that.  Because if it’s something awful, something you weren’t wholly responsible for, I know I won’t be able to control...it.”

Hawke bit her lip.  “Justice.”

Anders shook his head slowly.  “He’ll want someone’s head for how you were hurt, maybe even yours and I can’t - I can’t afford that.  Not right now.”

_Not with so much at stake._

Hawke watched him pack up his things quickly.  She had a million things she wanted to say to him, to all of them, as some form of explanation for what happened.  But none of the excuses she concocted in her mind made any sense if she said them aloud.  

Because at their center was the odd push and pull and uneven rhythm that was her and Varric, and she couldn’t make sense of it, let alone explain it to someone else.  The story alone - _of how she’d run until she couldn’t breathe, sand kicking up behind her, the cries of the gulls and her own ragged heartbeat in her ears, and when she’d finally stopped, the full force of what had happened and what she’d seen and heard had kicked her like a mule_ \- would make little sense.  Her anger and feelings of betrayal might resonate but her friends had also been witness to the stupidly intricate, inarticulate dance she and Varric had been doing around each other for longer than she could remember.

Aveline might understand, after her several fumbled but ultimately successful attempts to woo Donnic.  Merrill would comfort her, telling her that she just needed to talk to Varric and air it all out.  Isabela might be prone to giving seduction tips, or even worse, shoving her at Varric until she caved.  (She almost always caved with Isabela.)  

Fenris would scoff, tell her to stop delaying the inevitable, and get it over with. Anders...well, he clearly did and didn’t want to know what had transcribed, leaving her more conflicted than normal around him. And Sebastian might offer some sagely advice, offer to pray for her.  And Hawke wasn’t sure she could deal with that level of kindness right now.

Anders placed a hand on her forehead, a fleeting touch that reminded her of how very alone she was and had been, and left without another word.

It was her and a small room and the dust motes and the muffled ringing of Chantry bells overhead.  Her and a cloth bag with clean clothes and soap that smelled like lavender and home - Fereldan, not Kirkwall.

And she ached all over again.

The door creaking open shook her out of her reverie.  “The healer said to tell you he’d be back tomorrow to check on your wounds.”  Cullen came into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.  “He seemed...angry.”  His eyes widened slightly at her state of undress and he jerked his head away, color rising in his cheeks.  “I should leave.”

Hawke wrapped the sheet around her with the one good hand and started to rise.  “Don't worry, Knight Captain.  I'm going into the next room.”  She stood on shaky legs, felt the world tip on its end.  Cullen rushed to her side and took her by the elbow.  “Thanks.”

“Of course.” He nodded at the screen separating the small bedchamber from the washroom.  “There?”

“Yes.”

Hawke was silently relieved to see a tub full of steaming water - _Anders’ parting gift_ \- and gently pried her arm from Cullen’s grip.  “I'm good.”

Cullen ignored the question but let her pull the screen between them before turning away.  He knew that particular brand of stubborn on her face. “Your injuries were severe, Champion.  If you were attacked by raiders or a gang, I need to know so I can track them down.”

“It was nothing like that. Besides, they’re all dead.”  Hawke's voice sounded so small to him, even though only a flimsy screen of faded red cloth and scavenged wood frame stood between them.

“Dead?”  The question made his eyebrows raise in disbelief.  “You mean to tell me you defeated an entire group of….an entire group on your own?”

That made Hawke crack a weary smile as she bent over to grab the pitcher. Her fresh stitches pulled, making her gasp.  She heard Cullen’s footsteps rush toward her.  “I'm fine, I'm fine.  And you were present when I fought the Arishok.  What do you think?”

Cullen sat back heavily in his chair, his armor whining in protest.  “Maker’s breath.”

“You can say that again.”

“Well, I - I honestly don’t know what to say.”

Hawke gently settled in the tub, hissing as the hot water hit her wounds. She didn't bother with removing the bandages, watching their ends float up playfully as she sloshed around in the tub.  She leaned back, closing her eyes, and ruminated on the man sitting mere feet from her.  His hair was mussed, as though he’d been running his fingers through it, making tight blonde curls spiral out haphazardly.  The dark circles under his eyes were more present than normal.  And his mouth had only just loosened from its tight line as she had waved him off before disappearing behind the screen.  “You could tell me why you’re looking like you’ve recently been on the receiving end of a wallop mallot.”

Cullen gave a surprised laugh.  “What makes you say that?”

Hawke gestured vaguely in the air, not caring he couldn't see her.  “The hair. The bags under your eyes. Et cetera.”

“Well, I admit that sleep has been hard to come by since you disappeared and then were found nearly torn to shreds -”

“Hey, I hold my own.”

He chuckled at the indignation in her voice.  “Clearly.  But suffice to say that worry over your potential demise had more than a Chantry Brother on edge for a few hours.”

Hawke found herself drawn up short by that.  She huffed out a breath through her nose.  “That wasn’t my intention.”

“Then what was?”

His gaze was sharp on her now, seeking answers like they were written on her face.  “I don’t know,” she said resignedly.  “I was running.”

“I gathered that.”

His tone was so dry she feared he’d crumble into dust.  “I ran.  I ran until I couldn’t anymore.”

“And the reason why you were running?”

_Too complicated for words._

_My ignorance and my hesitation._

_The realization that my best friend and the man I ….the man I want would have played me like a side piece except for some sudden epiphany on his part._

“You don’t have to answer that,” Cullen said quickly, reading her silence a little too well for Hawke’s comfort.  “It’s not my business why, just that you’re safe and on your way to healing.”

Hawke scoffed, feeling very vulnerable.  “Right.  Because you can’t have the Champion of Kirkwall mucking up the good name of the Templars any more than necessary.”

Cullen was silent for a long, uncomfortable moment.  “That’s not why.”

“No?  You’re certain?  Aren’t you still answering to Knight Commander Meredith, she of the almighty power and authority in Kirkwall?”

He didn’t flinch at the bite in her words.  But he didn’t jump to defend Meredith, either, she noticed.  “I don’t get all of my information, or my answers, from the Knight Commander,” he said softly. "I am a lot of things, Hawke, but willing to be led blindly isn’t one of them.  Am I not allowed to worry about someone who has aided me, both as a Templar and as a…..as a ….”

He trailed off, unable to finish.  “A friend?” she offered, not sure whether she’d regret using that word with this man in this moment or not.  
  
Cullen smiled slightly.  “A friend,” he repeated.


	11. Heart Part III

The next day slid by slowly, with Hawke passing the time by watching sunlight advance across her room.  When the slats of light stretched across her bed, their colors now red and purple instead of bright white tinged with yellow, a heavy knock at her door shook her from her reverie.

A familiar blonde head poked in, eyes averted toward the ceiling.  “Are you, uh…”

Hawke stifled a laugh.  Laughing made her ribs ache, but it felt good to laugh. “You’re good, Knight Captain.  Nothing in here to make a Templar blush.”

There was a solemn silence that followed as the rest of Cullen appeared in the doorway. He made his way slowly to the chair on the other side of the bed, his eyes still not quite meeting hers.  The wood creaked, protesting under the weight of his armor.  He coughed, then leaned forward.  “I see the Sisters have been taking good care of you.”

She shrugged.  “The food was appreciated but I could have done without the comments about how much I was eating.”  A grin flitted across her face.  “It’s not bad, for Chantry food.”

“And that means…?”

The grin grew wider, stuck around a bit longer.  “I figured it’d be all hard bread and tasteless porridge.”  She reached out, the movement slow with pain, and poked the empty plate in the table beside her with a finger.  “I was right about the bread.  Porridge wasn’t bad, though.”

“Your wounds are clearly still serious.”  When she turned her head to look at him, his lips twisted.  “The porridge here is horrible.”

Hawke sputtered.  “Did you -are you - are you trying to be funny, Cullen?”

“Is it working? Be honest, it’s been awhile since an answer to any of my questions wasn’t followed with ‘Yes, Knight Captain’ and colored with deference.”

“Would it help if I ended all of my sentences with ‘Yes, Knight Captain’?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Hawke’s smile was one-sided but she felt its warmth down to her toes.  It was nice to feel something, anything other than the pull of stitches and the dry itch of bandages and the constant ache around her heart.  “Oh, now what fun is that?”

Cullen was smiling, too.  “Clearly you and I have different definitions of fun.”

“Hmm.  Mine involve tasteless porridge during the day and ribald songs and whiskey at night.  You?”

“Sadly, my day and night are pretty much the same.  Orders here, reports there, bumbling recruits to funnel into a straight line.”

Hawke passed a hand over her brow.  “Maker’s breath, you poor man!  Do you ever sleep?”

The smile dropped from his face, though he tried to keep his tone jovial.  “Less and less, I’m afraid.”

Hawke’s smile turned into a grimace.  “I’m sorry to hear that.”  She nodded at the little window across from them.  “It’ll be dark soon.  Why don’t you call it a night and get some rest?”

He passed a hand over his face then stood.  “Unfortunately, duty still calls.  And I’ve kept you long enough.”  Cullen crossed the room in two large strides then turned, hand on the door.  “Do you have everything you need?”

Hawke nodded.  “And if not, Sebastian was stopping by after evening service.  And since I’m basically bunking in his room, he kind of has to stop by.”  She snickered.  “He dropped by quickly this morning and said hello but I think he’s avoiding conversation.  At least until I’m mobile and not half naked in his bed.”

“He is a Chantry Brother,” Cullen said pointedly.  “Nudity isn’t something they cover in the Chant.”

 _More snark?  Surprising_ , Hawke thought before grinning again.  “Well, I suppose you can attest to that, Chantry educated and all.  But I do think the Chant..hell, religion, would be far more interesting and draw many more followers with a dash or two of nudity.”

He chuckled and the sound reverberated through her ribs.  Hawke shivered. “Of that I have no doubt.  We might keep a few more scared recruits with a bit of nudity.”

She raised a finger.  “Tasteful nudity, though.”

He cocked an eyebrow.  “Is there such a thing?”

 _That_ made her throw back her head and laugh.  He asked it so innocently maintaining the picture of consternation and she couldn’t help herself.  The question hung there, begging for her answer.

“Oh, Knight Captain, you have _no_ idea.  The best kind of nudity is tasteful.”  She dropped her head, eyes gleaming.  The warmth from earlier spread over her body, making her relax more against the pillows.  “Picture it.  You’re in a room with a new lover.  You’re nervous, excited.  The room is lit by a single candle, and there isn’t even a fire to give extra light or warmth.  All you have, all you can rely on, is that single candle and your senses..”

She took a deep breath, eyes never leaving his.  “You hear her first.  There’s a brush of cloth. It sounds promising, sensual, like new leaves brushing against each other.  She comes into view, smiles at you.”  Hawke’s voice dropped, and her uninjured fingers rubbed at the blanket over her legs.  “She’s wearing your tunic and she looks good in, better than you ever have.  She pulls at it, making it dip.  You get a glimpse of shoulder, collarbone.”    
  
Spurred on by the little noise he made, she charged onward, not sure if what she was doing was supremely stupid or even just ill-advised.  But the warmth spreading through her certain didn’t feel bad.   _Good, it feels good to….whatever this is.  Hell, I have no idea what I’m doing._  “She turns her back to you and the tunic drops lower.  Your eyes wander as more skin is exposed and the shadows dance over her, caressing her body.   You imagine your hand following those shadows, and you’re drawn in, closer and closer to the promise of _her_.”

Hawke saw Cullen lean heavily against the door, a red flush spreading rapidly up his neck.  But he never broke eye contact.  She was suddenly uncomfortably hot under the covers.  “You can follow the curve of her spine until the last little bit of cloth and darkness hides the swell of her backside.  And when they turn around….oh, that slow reveal, your eyes straining to take her in, seeking her most intimate parts…”

His nostrils flared as he stared at her, hard.  Hawke had the acute feeling that his mind was trapped in the picture she’d painted.  And for a moment - one long, electric, moment - she wondered if he was picturing her.

The air around them was charged, a single spark capable of setting them off.

She was playing with fire, and she wasn’t sure if she knew what she was doing.  But she was curious how it might end.  Everything she’d had pent up - the longing, the waiting, the shared glances and knowing smiles and little dirty jokes - had left her bereft.  And no self-administrations would cure that want.  

The dark stare he was giving her was tapping on the glass, asking to be let in.  And she was tempted.

But she was also wounded, more than just physically, and the sane (albeit very quiet, shoved to the back) part of her brain screamed, yelled, stomped its feet and held up huge warning signs.  And when he stumbled, almost drunkenly, into the room to sink heavily in the chair just inches from her bedside, his eyes hot on her, she beat that part of her brain senseless with that damn warning sign.

“Is that the end of your story?” he asked, voice cracking under the immense strain he was clearly feeling, if his expression was any indication.  

She stared back.  “Do you want it to be?”

He shook his head slowly.  “No.”

* * *

 

For the millionth time, I don’t know!”

The others around the table stilled at Anders’ raised voice and sharp tone.  “Another beer over here for my friend!” Isabela said, motioning to the Norah.  

“I don’t need a beer, Isabela,” Anders growled, letting her tug him back down into his seat.  He plopped down into the chair and crossed his arms.  “I’m telling you everything…everything Hawke wants me to tell you.  She’s safe, she’s resting.  And she doesn’t want everyone fawning over her right now.”

“Are you certain?” Fenris said, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” Anders snapped.

Aveline slapped a hand down on the table.  “Enough, both of you.  This is getting us nowhere.”  She sighed, leaned back in her chair.  “Anders says she’s safe and healing well.”

“But what _happened_?” Merrill said.  The elf was perched on the end of her chair, green eyes scanning the table for reactions.  “She didn’t just wind up hurt like that.”

“First Varric goes missing, now Hawke is found on the Wounded Coast.”  All eyes turned toward back toward Aveline.  “Something has happened between them.  Don’t you think it’s strange that Varric wasn’t the one taking up the rallying cry to find Hawke?  That he’s gone at the same time she reappears?”

Isabela scoffed into her mug.  “What you’re suggesting is crazy.”

“Is it?” Fenris said, his gravelly voice carrying over the table.  “Varric disappears on occasion, so we didn’t think anything of it.  That maybe he was off working with all those traders and merchants he deals with.  And almost at the same time, none of us can find Hawke, but the Templars discover her bleeding out in the sand, miles away?”

“You don’t think -”

He glanced at Merrill.  “I don’t know what to think quite yet.  But it’s no coincidence.”

“But Varric would never - “

Fenris cut her off with an upraised hand.  “I didn’t say that.  I just said it’s not a coincidence.  We can keep speculating, or we can go ask Hawke herself.”

“She won’t answer,” Anders said from the other end of the table.  “She wouldn’t tell me and frankly, after a while, I don’t know if I want to hear it or not.”

He and Fenris began to argue, which was not out of the normal for them. Aveline ignored them both and crooked a finger at Isabela and Merrill.  Both women leaned forward to hear her whisper, “The men can bicker all they want but we need answers.”  She reached into her tunic pocket and produced a thick piece of folded parchment.  “I found this tucked in with the rest of the mail Bodhan has been saving until Hawke returns..”

The pirate and elf read in silence over Aveline’s shoulder and just when she anticipated it, they both gasped.

“What do you-”

“No, he couldn’t!”

Aveline shushed them and motioned to a table further away from the bickering. “I don’t know.  And I don’t want to alert them.  Fenris will just go after Varric and Justice might decide that’s a good time to show up.  We can handle this. Quietly.”

All three women arranged their chairs so their backs were to Fenris and Anders and then sat down with sighs.  “What happened?” Merrill asked, her face pinched with worry.

Isabela gestured at the letter.  “Clearly it’s Varric’s fault.  He admits as much.  That little - ugh!”

Aveline put a hand over the paper and drug it over to her.  “He’s not specific, but he does say that Hawke running off was his fault, he’s sorry, and he should have just told her.”  She tapped the letter.  “Told her what?”

Isabela scoffed at the Guard Captain.  “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Do tell.”

The pirate smiled at Aveline’s droll tone.  “He’s in love with her.  Has been for some time.”

Merrill looked perplexed.  “Really?  I would have taken him more for a dwarf kind of man. Or, dwarf.”

Isabela chuckled.  “Kitten, that man has only ever had eyes for one person since the day I joined up with her, and that was years ago.”

“I feel like I should have known this,” Aveline muttered, staring hard at the letter.  “I’m a guard, a Guard Captain, for Maker’s sake.  We’re detectives, we solve crimes.  It should have been obvious.”

Isabela waved a finger at her.  “Aw, don’t blame yourself.  You have a day job.  I don’t.  Do you know how many times I’ve been traipsing around with those two and had to put up with the little smiles and knowing glances.  Honestly, I take a bit of the blame for this.  I should have shoved Hawke at Varric years ago  Nothing cures all that nonsense like jumping into bed together.”  She tapped her chin in thought.  “You know, I almost kidnapped Hawke and dumped her in Varric’s bed one time.  It was right after that jewel heist we pulled off-”

Merrill clapped her hands.  “Oh, that was so much fun!  I wish we had done more of those instead of wandering around the Wounded Coast to hunt raiders.  Or spiders.”  She frowned.  “I don’t like that place.  The sand gets in everything.”

“Would you have seriously done that,  had you known for certain?” Aveline asked.

“Had I know what?”  

Isabela’s face was the picture of pure confusion, and for once, Aveline believed her.  “Had you know that this - whatever this is - would happen.  I feel like something’s been broken and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Isabela pointed at the letter.  “Then let’s find Varric and make him fix it.”  She sighed.  “Honestly, he owes me some time with Bianca for putting up with all this shit.”

“What about Hawke?” Merrill asked.

Isabela waved a hand.  “She’s at the Chantry.”

The other two women gaped.  “How do you know that?” Aveline asked, suspicion coloring her voice.

The pirate smiled.  “Because, sweet thing, I followed Anders there this morning. Not all the way up the stairs, but enough to see him go into Sebastian’s room. He came out looking like someone had offered to boil his head, but his hands were smeared with dried elfroot.  He was healing.  In the Chantry.  The one place he hates.”  She shrugged. “And then after he left, I put my ear to the door and heard Hawke talking to…honestly, I’m not sure who.  And it makes sense - where else would the Templars take the Champion of Kirkwall?”  She tapped the table.  “The only safe place they know and love with all their little righteous hearts.”

“Should we visit her?” Merrill asked, worry behind her words.  “I hate thinking she’s there all alone all day with nothing to do.  Or anyone to keep her company.”

Aveline patted Merrill’s shoulder.  “If Anders isn’t telling us, it’s likely because Hawke doesn’t want him to.  Which means something is definitely going on, because normally Hawke would let us know where she was.”

Merill nodded her head at Fenris and Anders.  “Aren’t we going to tell them?”

Aveline and Isabela looked at each other for a long moment and then Aveline said, “I don’t think so.  Not until we know more about Varric’s role in this.”  She stood and the others followed.  Aveline refolded the letter and tucked it into her armor.  “I’ll start asking guards who might have seen Varric lately.  You two should search his suite.”

Isabela grinned and threw an arm around Merrill’s shoulders.  “I love snooping, especially when it’s sanctioned by the Guard Captain.”

“Don’t let anyone catch you,” Aveline warned as the two walked off.

“Never!” Isabela shouted as Merrill laughed.

*********

* * *

  
“That worries me.”

Anders looked up from the mug Isabela had shoved on him.  “Dare I ask?”

Fenris pointed an armored hand at the three whispering women on the other side of the tavern.  “Aveline and Isabela not wanting to kill each other is…disconcerting.”  His eyes narrowed.  “They know something.  And since you won’t tell us where Hawke is-”

“She doesn’t want anyone to know,” Anders said stiffly.  “If I go against her wishes, that will only make the rift between us worse, which is not something I’m interested in.”

Fenris cocked his head at the mage.  “That’s surprising.”

“What is?”

“Your concern for anything or anyone beyond yourself.  I admit to being surprised.”

Anders scoffed.  “I’m surprised you aren’t threatening to beat it out of me.”

“I considered it.”

Anders glared at him, but then turned his gaze to the little huddle of their friends.  “How fortunate for me.  But unfortunately, you are right.  Something is going on over there.”

“How generous of you.”

“Would you stop it?  We can’t even argue properly, that’s why we were just sitting here in silence moments ago.  While you glowered.”

Fenris visibly bristled.  “I do not glower.”  His eyes tracked Aveline’s hand as it tucked something into her armor.  “But they know something and whatever that was that Aveline just hid is important.”

Anders straightened in his chair and tried to look normal as the women walked by.  “I’m going to regret this, but what are you suggesting?”

Fenris leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial.  “You follow Aveline. I’ll track Isabela and Merrill.  We meet back here in two days.”

Anders raised an eyebrow.  “That sounds…surprisingly simple.”

“And?”

The eyebrow stayed raised.  “Did my tone suggest an ‘and’?”  He smiled slightly.  “And I’m still not telling you where Hawke is.”

Fenris stood and for the first time in months, Anders saw him smile.  “It’s obvious.  She’s in the Chantry.”

Anders crossed his arms and stared, hard.  “Oh, really?”

Fenris kept smiling and it made Anders shift in his seat.  “Yes.”

And he walked away, leaving Anders fuming.

* * *

 

“Hey, Tethras.  Wake up.”

Varric jolted upright, heart pounding.  The wagon driver was staring at him with an expression of pity on his weathered face.  “Appreciate it,” Varric said, voice hoarse from sleep that had been too disturbed to be restful.  

He fumbled for his bags, sleep-clumsy fingers nearly numb from being cradled under his head.  He was the only one left in the wagon, so Chester wasn’t in a hurry to turn right back around and pick up another load of paying charges.  So he took a few moments to look at the sunrise cresting over the horizon.   
  
It was nice enough land, scattered with trees and, further along the horizon, little house-shaped dots that were sending up plumes of smoke from tiny chimneys.  Varric grunted as he hefted his bags over his shoulder and hopped down from the wagon.  He walked to the front and tossed a few extra coins at Chester.  “I was never here.”

Chester grinned with all four teeth he had left and quickly secreted the coins into his worn jacket.  “Never saw you, don’t even know who you are.”  He tipped his hat.  “You’re always good for business, Varric.  Be seein’ ya.”

The horses trundled off under the practiced guidance of their master and Varric was left alone on the roadside, staring up at the house in front of him.  He sighed, hoisting his bags higher.  “I hope this works,” he said out loud.  “That fool bastard of a brother of mine better appreciate it.”  


End file.
